Prompt Ficlets: Johnlock Edition
by TheFarFire
Summary: Each chapter is a different Johnlock ficlet/oneshot prompted by my followers and friends. Slash. M/M. John/Sherlock. Rated T to M for language and recurring sexual themes. May contain scenes of a sexual nature / angst / drama / mild sub-dom / hurt-comfort / romance / fluff / violence. I'm still open for prompts! See the guidelines in Chapter 1 and give me a try :)
1. Chapter 1

Hello All! This series will contain all my Johnlock ficlets/oneshots that have been requested by some wonderful followers and anons over on tumblr (my name: thefarfire - look me up!). Looking for something specific? See the Contents below to see the tags for each chapter :)

**Open/Closed?:** GIMME THEM PROMPTS...please.

**Prompt Guidelines/Disclaimers:**

- Sherlock and subsequent characters do not belong to me  
- Johnlock only - but I may set it as pre-relationship or post-relationship if not specified  
- I am open to all ideas, the only ones I outright refuse to do is non-consent/rape, sexual+underage and character death... because no, just no  
- If not on tumblr and you PM a prompt PLEASE STATE CLEARLY if you want to be anonymous - I understand that some prompts can be embarrassing or make some people feel quite shy so just let me know :)  
- My creativity is choosy, so I can't promise I will write the prompts as soon as I receive them, but I do keep all eligible ones

Now, on with the show! x

* * *

**Contents**

**Chapter 2: **Trapped in an Elevator/Lift - _Tags: boyfriends, claustrophobia, swearing, making out, John POV_

**Chapter 3:** Rekindling the Romance - _Tags: exboyfriends, making up, making out, John POV_

**Chapter 4: **Tremours -_ Tags: boyfriends, hand tremours, fluff, cute, mixed POV_

**Chapter 5: **Ill Sherlock - _Tags: boyfriends, fever, hurt/comfort, making out, John POV_

**Chapter 6:** Cabin in the Woods - _Tags: pre-relationship, on a case, snowed in, first kiss, making out, John POV_

**Chapter 7: **Crime Scene - _Tags: pre-relationship, Anderson lol, Lestrade, Sherlock POV,_

**Chapter 8: **Ice Cold - _Tags: pre-relationship, Sherlock rescues John, on a case, first kiss, Sherlock POV, surprise fluff ending! _

**Chapter 9: **Blacked It All Out - _Tags: pre-relationship, drunk John, prankster Sherlock, confession, for science John!, mixed POV_

**Chapter 10: **A Hard Day's Work - _Tags: boyfriends, hurt/comfort, fluff, John POV_

**Chapter 11:** Near Fatal -_ Tags: married, injured John, hospital, blood, hurt/comfort, Lestrade, Sherlock in shock, Sherlock POV_

**Chapter 12: **Our First Anniversary -_ Tags: married, presents, fluff, mixed POV_

**Chapter 13:** Damn Experiments! -_ Tags: boyfriends, injured John, blood, first aid, John POV_

**Chapter 14: **Line of Fire -_ Tags: boyfriends, injured John, Sherlock proposes!, mixed POV_

**Chapter 15: **On a Break -_ Tags: boyfriends, jealousy, arguments, making out, smut, Sherlock POV_

**Chapter 16:** Memories_ - Tags: boyfriends, death in the family, angst, Sherlock POV_

* * *

**Bonus:**

**The Oneshot That Started It All**

John woke up silently but with a start, eyes wide and staring straight into the darkness. Just the barest sigh of air escaping his lips. It took him two attempts to speak.

"…You awake?"

"Always." Came the reply, low and measured. "The one with the raid, the one with your shoulder, or…the other one?"

John blinked, sitting up on one elbow, grasping for the glass he knew he'd left on the bedside cabinet. But he misjudged, sweeping it off the edge and spilling on to the carpet. "Dammit."

"Which one?"

"The other one, Sherlock, the other one!" He snapped, flopping back down, shoving his palms into his eyes. The bed shifted… a cool hand on his arm, another swatting his hands away, pressing across his forehead.

"You've still got a temperature."

"I'm ill. Which is why you shouldn't be in bed with me." He was grumpy. Grumpy for being ill with the random virus going around, and grumpy because it was giving him those nightmares again.

Falling. Always falling.

Sherlock didn't answer, and John pushed into his palm with a pained sigh. Fingers played with the damp hair along his brow.

"I don't know how you stand it.."

"You 'stand it.'"

"Yes, but I'm a doctor-"

"Yes, but I'm your partner-"

"Boyfriend."

"Partner. Boyfriend. Whatever."

John laughed wincing under the pressure in his head. "Okay, partner/boyfriend/whatever, don't you have a case to work on?"

"It can wait."

"No, come on, I'll get up with you-"

"Stay exactly where you are. Don't move." Sherlock's fingers gripped his arm, tightened into his hair. John's heart leapt into his throat. "Keep your eyes fixed on me."

This wasn't right, something was wrong, very wrong-  
"Sherlock, I can't see you-"

_"Keep your eyes fixed on me!"_

John yelled as the the bed gave way, sheets swallowing him up and dragging painfully against his skin, drawing blood. The sound of breaking glass, squealing breaks, the rush of air as the pavement rushed up to meet him- _oh god- no!_

_"Sherlock!"_

John woke up silently but with a start, eyes wide and staring straight into the darkness. Just the barest sigh of air escaping his lips. It took him two attempts to speak.

"…You awake?"

"Always." Came the reply, low and measured. "The one with the raid, the one with your shoulder, or…the other one?"

John's face crumpled in the dark, a wavering breath, mumbling through his fingers. "The…the o-other one."

The bed shifted… a cool hand on his arm, another swatting his hands away, pressing across his forehead.

"You've still got a temperature."

"I'm…" John pushed into his palm with a pained sigh. "…glad you're here."

"It's alright." Fingers played with the damp hair along his brow. "I'm not going anywhere. Go back to sleep."

"You'll be-?"

"Right here."

"Alright, okay… Night then."

"…Goodnight, John."


	2. Chapter 2

**Anonymous asked: Sherlock and John trapped in an elevator.**

[elevator = lift…. Poot pooooot]

"What?" Sherlock clearly couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. "Really?"

John could already feel his palms sweating, so the incredulous look Sherlock was gracing him with was more irritating than normal. "Yes, really!" He jabbed at the lift buttons, which refused for the fifth time to light up or in any other way indicate they were connected to the mechanics.

He stepped back, taking a deep breath. "How long until they come?"

He could feel Sherlock looking at him out of the corner of his eye, but he was perfectly fine, really perfectly fine. Absolutely no fuss was to be made by John at all. Nope, not from him. Nothing to worry about.

"He said about half an hour."

After all, being trapped inside a very small metal box suspended ten floors up in the air with no escape routes, just dangling from what he imagined was a very thin and flimsy cable, was really NOTHING to be worried about. Piece of cake!

"Half an hour? Really that long?" John tried to sound nonchalant, but there was visible strain in his voice. He coughed.

"…Possibly an hour."

"An hour?!" John bit his lip at the outburst, one hand going out to touch the railing, gripping it.

"You're sweating." Sherlock pointed out unhelpfully. "It's just in your mind, John. Claustrophobia is easily conquered-"

"Yes, well you would say that, wouldn't you? Mr I'm Not Afraid of Anything." He muttered under his breath, which in such close quarters was clearly heard by the other man. Sherlock pursed his lips together, trying not to smile. "It's never really been a problem, alright? Just the odd…flare up."

"Okay… Well, what did you do to get through it last time?"

John blinked a few times, feeling the colour draining out of his face. He turned away, unable to look at him, one shake of the head. He couldn't talk about it. Sherlock reached out a hand to touch his free one. "I'm all- Sherlock, don't, I'm all clammy-"

"It's never stopped me before, has it?"

John managed a weak laugh, their fingers slotting together. Sherlock moved to face him, and in the process rocked the small lift ever so slightly, but it was more than enough to freak John out. He gasped and grabbed at Sherlock completely pushing up against him.

"Don't move!" He immediately went bright red but his instincts were too strong to over-ride that humiliating impulse.

Sherlock was obviously enjoying himself though, and allowed his supremely dickish side to show for a moment, purposely rocking the lift a second time. John couldn't help it, he went ballistic.

"Can you not fucking do that?!" He screamed, giving him a short punch in his side as Sherlock laughed. "I mean seriously what the fuck is wrong with you?! That's NOT okay Sherlock! I'm losing my mind here and you have to act like a fucking school boy-!"

"Oh come on, John, I couldn't resist-"

"You have to be such a superior asshole sometimes don't you? Well, can it not be at my expense for once please?!"

That caught Sherlock off guard, his laughter dying, smile fading. "Is…that what you think? What? That just because my IQ is higher that it therefore bars me from ever taking the piss out of you?" Sherlock looked offended, and actually had a bit of right to be. "Me teasing you was less me trying to be a 'superior asshole,' as you so kindly put it, and more me trying to get you to jump into my arms again. I quite like you throwing yourself at me for once. Alright?"

John's mouth opened and closed a few times, more than a little chastened for the scolding comments even despite his nerves. Sherlock pursed his lips, jaw tightening, considerately moving more slowly as he went to turn away from him. But John grabbed his sleeve, head flopping forward to rest against his arm. "Sorry, sorry, that wasn't fair of me-"

All of a sudden, he felt Sherlock's hand on the back of his neck, looking up with a little surprised glance as Sherlock bent to him, kissing him hard on the mouth. Semi-angry kisses were John's guilty pleasure, and just then he really needed the indulgence. The fight-or-flight phobic instinct and the europhria from making out with his recently acquired boyfriend was nothing short of an explosive hit to the senses.

John's heart rate spiked as the lift swayed slightly when Sherlock pushed him back against the railed wall, but if the choice was to cower in the corner until helped arrived or let Sherlock distract him, then he'd made the right choice.

"Just need-" Sherlock pulled on John's hair, tilting his head back to expose his throat which he trailed kisses and murmured words over "-some positive reinforcement." He growled, his free hand grabbing John's arse as he let out a small moan of agreement…

John could never look at lifts quite the same way after that… always getting a pink flush across his cheeks. Ofcourse, Sherlock had been able to keep him fully distracted for the forty minutes they'd had to wait. And from that day forward, he also wore a very particular smile whenever they had to use a lift again…

Dick.


	3. Chapter 3

**Anonymous asked: Prompt: John and Sherlock run into each other after not living together for a couple years. They decide to rekindle their old flame at 221b (gimme smuuut)**

[i know this isn't as smutty as you wanted, but it just kinda happened! Sorry nonny]

"You look disappointed."

"I was hoping you'd have something more to say to me than 'hello, Sherlock.'"

John's breath condensed in the air as he tried to warm them up, fidgeting, looking up at him with a glare. "You left me, remember? I don't have to say anything."

"I wasn't good enough for you."

John's mouth popped open in surprise. He'd always thought it was the other way round. Before the arguments. Before Sherlock had stirred him up and flung him loose. And there he was, standing in front of him making huge sweeping statements again. But meaning them this time.

It really wasn't all his fault- John hadn't made it easy for him. It had been the best four months of his life atleast, and they'd both gone and fucked it up royally.

"You were. I just didn't want to see it." He admitted, unable to look at him directly. "I should've -"

"Come up." Sherlock cut in and John folded his arms, shaking his head.

"I can't."

"Yes you can, it's freezing. You won't be able to write if you lose your fingers."

John laughed and Sherlock smiled, the exact smile that shouldn't affect him but totally did. "You still read my blog?"

"You still read my texts." It's true, it's what brought him here in the first place.

New Years Eve.  
221b.  
I didn't forget.  
-SH

"I shouldn't have come…" John whispered, remembering the pact they'd made… limbs entwined, hair slicked, breathing heavy. A pact that no matter what happened, they had to meet at 221b on New Years Eve 2014 to see in the New Year together. A stupid thing. Arbitrary. John's idea clearly. Sherlock had remembered and John had tried to forget.

"Well, it's a bit late now. You're going to freeze-"

"Oh any excuse to warm me up, eh, Sherlock?" It was meant to sound sarcastic at best, corny at worst. But it was neither. Sherlock just wouldn't stop staring at him. He'd almost forgotten that hungry look. "Got any tea?" He mumbled.

Sherlock grabbed him by the elbow, pulling him across the pavement and through the door of 221b, hauling him inside. "Hey! You can't just drag me around-"

"From what I recall, you liked being dragged around."

John was about to tell him in no uncertain terms to piss off, but the dim light in the hallway was doing strange things to Sherlock's eyes… so strange that it made it very hard for John to do the really difficult things like breathing, blinking, talking etc.

And Sherlock was very aware of it.

"D-don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

John swallowed. "Like you have regrets."

"I wouldn't have sent the text if I didn't-"

"And you've never been the type to want a 'booty-call' so what the Hell am I doing here?" John muttered, loud enough to be heard, it didn't really matter.

"John." He froze. That voice, that tone…his body hadn't forgotten it. He clenched his fists, heart rate increasing. "I think we both know why you came."

"I wanted to see if you'd fallen apart without me-"

"You wanted to see if you were over me." Sherlock corrected, and John bristled. The truth hurt.

"Yeah well, whatever, have a nice life-"

John went to move past him, back to the door, but ofcourse he barely got within two inches of it before Sherlock leant in whispering into his ear.

"I'm not over you."

"Dammit, Sherlock." He turned his head to him, when he knew he shouldn't, he should have just kept on going. But instinct was hard to fight.

Sherlock bent to him, searing the cold off his lips with his own hot mouth, pushing John up against the wall. A muffled gasp of surprise, then another noise entirely as Sherlock whipped down the zip on John's jacket, pulling it down off him so fast he thought he heard some of the stitching rip in the sleeve.

John pushed back into Sherlock, the taller man half falling back against the opposite wall, dragging John with him by the hips. Eyes dark, mouth parted as John wriggled his hands up his shirt, lips on his neck- his beautiful fucking neck-

Sherlock hooked a leg around one of his, forcing John to push up against him, almost hip to hip- hands in John's hair and making the most dizzying moan of pleasure right in his ear. Sherlock's hands went wandering, grabbing him on the arse, grinding up against him as he was pulled on tip-toes-

There was the familiar jab, and suddenly John was throwing out all the promises he'd made to himself, reaching down again to grab at his belt. Sherlock stopped him, hands on both wrists, breathing heavy. He fixed John with a very sharp look. "Take me back."

"W-what?" He spluttered, his brain fighting for control over his libido. It wasn't exactly winning.

"I'm not going to say it again-"

"You bloody will if you want me to say yes."

Sherlock took John's face in his hands gently, gaze softening, the warm baritone sinking into his senses. "…Take me back, John."

His eyes fluttered, cheeks flushed. This changed things completely. The spark was there, the chemistry had never died. It was possible. "Actually… kiss me some more whilst I think about it."

"Kiss you where? Here?" His mouth. "Here?" His neck. "Or here maybe?" John's mouth opened in a startled 'oh' motion as Sherlock practically slid down him, on to his knees, hands popping open his trousers in one fluid movement.

He had one hand inside John's fly when the door opened to the downstairs flat, a woman appearing, half calling over her shoulder. "Yes I know doesn't she look awf-" the woman froze, much like Sherlock and John did.

Awkward.

Mrs Hudson appeared from behind her, looked at the two men, before slowly pulling her blushing friend back inside. "The drink can wait Maud, the fireworks are ages away anyway… Well, maybe not as far as I thought." She looked back over her shoulder with a roll of her eyes and a smile on her face. "Not in the hall please, boys."

Sherlock scrambled to his feet, taking John by the hand.

"Sorry, Mrs Hudson."

"Yeah, sorry." Nothing like a mother-figure to kill the mood. He pinched Sherlock's hand, who winced but didn't let go. "I thought you were alone you muppet-"

"Look, I was the one on my knees just then-"

"You did that off your own back-"

"Well is it a yes or no?"

"Ofcourse it's a yes!" John yelled. They looked at each other, and John suddenly felt quite shy. "Because I must have 'sucker' tattooed on my forehead or something…" He muttered half heartedly.

"You're the sucker? Again, I refer back to not one minute ago when I was on my knees-"

John couldn't help it, caught by the wave of laughter that lit him up like no other. "Sherlock!"


	4. Chapter 4

**Anonymous asked: U want johnlock prompt? Here is johnlock prompt. Sherlock notices Johns hand tremor and it really bothers him. Sherlock asks if he's okay, John says he's fine, but sherlock tries to soothe him anyway because something is clearly bothering him. Sherlock could be snuggling or rubbing johns hands to make him feel better. Idc how many words, just be fluffycute:)**

[i literally suck at fluffycute, but I tried :( hidden reference to another series in here too wtf]

John cursed as the mug fell from his grip, contents spilling across the rug. It was only the dregs but it might as well been the whole cup from the look on his face. Sherlock watched him with narrowed eyes over the top of his newspaper, as he stamped back into the kitchen to retrieve some kitchen roll.

That was the second time he'd dropped something today. The tremors were getting worse. And John was still avoiding the subject.

"John."

He ignored Sherlock, treading the kitchen roll into the wet patch. Sherlock lowered his newspaper as John retreated back into the kitchen to throw the paper towels away.

"John."

Still no answer.

Sherlock tapped his bare feet on the floor. He didn't like being ignored.

"John. John, John, John, JOHN-"

"This better be good." He said, continuing the stomping back into the living room to face him, hands clenched at his side.

Sherlock ran his tongue over the edge of his teeth, sucking in a breath as he tossed the paper over the side of the sofa. John frowned, watching Sherlock scoot forward to the edge of the sofa, holding a hand out to him.

"What?"

Sherlock gave him the 'let me do this you idiot' look, which annoyed him, but not enough to stop him from begrudgingly moving forward within reach of him. He pulled John gently closer by the edge of his jumper until John was stood in between his legs. Sherlock put his hands on either side of John's hips, who still stood there stubbornly, and looked up at him. He tried not to look patronising.

"Are you ever going to tell me what's-?"

"Nothing's wrong." John snapped.

"Well, that's reassuring. The long silences, swearing, clumsiness and irritability have obviously just been a mass hallucination by the whole of London-" John lost some of his rigidity at the sarcasm, some of the tension falling out of his shoulders. Only fractionally, but it was a good sign.

John tentatively placed a hand on Sherlock's head, fingers lightly pushing into his dark curls. He looked apologetic atleast as Sherlock gazed up at him, jaw tight from the effort of not blurting out what he deduced was wrong. He'd learnt the hard way that the softly-softly approach worked better with his partner when he was feeling…out of sorts.

"Sorry…" Sherlock felt the tremor, mild but very present…saw the moment when John realised he knew about them anyway, lips pursing together. But Sherlock caught John's wrists before he could walk off, pulling him down and back on to the sofa with him with a muffled 'ooof' noise.

Sherlock never got tired of the very endearing surprised look John got whenever he pulled a move on him. It was a guilty pleasure. Even after eight months as an official couple, John still got this rabbit-caught-in-headlights look whenever Sherlock decided he needed to be pounced on. He could time the flustered heat in his cheeks to the second, and it was fascinating.

Sherlock shifted John slightly, who complied without a word, a sigh of giving into the inevitable escaping his lips. They ended up laying across the sofa pressed against each other, Sherlock raised up on one elbow, taking the lead.

"Come on."

John blinked, looking at him with a guarded expression. "What?"

"Start talking."

"I don't have anything… to… say." He mumbled, suddenly very distracted by Sherlock stroking the back of one of his hands resting on his stomach.

Sherlock purposely looked a little hurt, shrugging slightly, thumbing concentric circles on his skin. "Alright, you don't have to tell me, I mean, it's fine, I understand-"

"Don't look like that…" John pleaded quietly. Now Sherlock really was worried, normally John saw straight through him when he did the wounded act. "I just…haven't been sleeping well."

"Really? I hadn't noticed anything…" Okay maybe his deduction wasn't as accurate as he thought.

"Well you wouldn't, you've been working on a case." Sherlock stared at him, and John back-tracked. "That wasn't a complaint that was a statement. We haven't actually gone to bed together in about three weeks."

"Right…yes, ofcourse." He'd never had the best sense of time when it came to a calendar year. He frowned, not really sure what he should say for once. Sherlock raised John's hand to his mouth, kissing the back of it, looking away as he murmured against his skin. "If you feel neglected, John, you really have to say to me-"

"No, no, Sherlock that's not it. No, not at all, really, I'm fine, I'm not having a dig at you, look I said I really didn't have anything… Well…anything…" John licked his lower lip as he watched Sherlock very slowly rubbing his cheek against the back of John's hand, looking down at him through half lidded eyes. Very distracting. "…to say." He finished meekly.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, "oh really?"

"Well…" Sherlock's long fingers, slid over the sensitive inside of his wrist, turning John's hand to cup his face…the soothing touches seemed to be having the desired effect atleast. John took a deep breath, "Ijustworryaboutyou."

Sherlock blinked, snorting with disbelief. "What? Why?"

"Oh it doesn't matter, forget I said anything!" John wrestled his hand away, getting up, but Sherlock just followed him, turning him back round so they were standing face to face. "Leave it-!"

"Explain to me how your intermittent tremor is back because you are 'worried' about me."

"I just need more sleep, I told you-"

"Explain!" Sherlock commanded, and John gritted his teeth, staring stubbornly up at him. He moved up closer, making it easier to hold hands with John, slotting their fingers together. "Please."

John's resolve wavered. "Can you just…think before you act please?"

"I always think-"

"No, listen. You want to know so just listen to me." John squeezed his hands. "If someone is threatening me with a gun, I expect you to be the one to use your brain to help me- I don't expect you to bloody throw yourself into the path of any possible bullets."

"…That was ages ago."

"That was nine days ago." John shook his head, suddenly looking a bit paler. "I can't stop having nightmares about it. I don't know, ever since you've been back…it's been happening on and off…but this is the worst time." John's head flopped forward resting on Sherlock's chest. "Just think, okay? Just don't act on impulse again. It's hell on my nerves."

Sherlock let his hands go, wrapping his arms around his shoulders into a hug instead, John clung to him tightly, sighing. "You worry too much. It's always going to be dangerous. I've got to protect you-"

John spluttered in outrage into his shirt "I'm not a baby-!"

Sherlock began laughing, kissing the side of his face as John tried to push him off. But he didn't struggle for long, trying to tickle him back, both tussling and giggling together until ofcourse the mood changed entirely. The ornaments on the shelf rattled as John knocked up against them, pulling Sherlock's mouth to his, needing to relieve some of the tension that had been hounding him.

Sherlock made a mental note: to remove tremors, take ten minutes of listening, a dash of soothing caresses, and add one make out session pushed up against a wall or similar stationary object for maximum results.

"Better?" Sherlock asked between gasps.

"Shut up and kiss me, idiot."


	5. Chapter 5

**Anonymous asked: Sherlock being ill and having a nightmare and John comforting him...just anything hurt/comfort and maybe a bit smut :)**

[suggestive…we all know Sherly is secretly a big girls blouse]

John tore down the stairs, stumbling down the last two, lurching through the living room doorway with all the grace and aplomb of a man who'd just been abruptly woken up by a scream. Or more exactly, Sherlock's scream.

He knew he hadn't imagined it when he saw the look on his face. Sherlock was sprawled on the floor, having clearly rolled and fallen off the sofa. Thank god Mrs Hudson was visiting a friends, because the noise that had just penetrated the whole of the flat was worthy of a 999 call.

John sagged with relief, it wasn't an attack on 221b- Sherlock had clearly just had a nightmare. Although by the sheen of sweat on his grey face, it looked like it had been a killer one. He walked over to his shocked friend, bending down to help him up.

"Come on Sherlock-"

"Don't. Touch. Me." He hissed, shrugging off John's hands, turning his head away. But he wasn't so easily put off. He stepped closer, forcibly placing a palm over Sherlock's forehead. Just as he thought, the fever hadn't broken yet. He tried shaking off John again but ofcourse he was as weak as a kitten.

"C'mon stop being a big baby," he muttered, hoisting Sherlock up on to his feet. The taller man wobbled, but John held him up, hooking his arm around his waist, leading him in through the kitchen towards the downstairs bedroom. "I put you to bed for a reason, you shouldn't be up."

"I went to… Ah… I don't know… I was looking for you." Down the hall and into the bedroom.

"I was upstairs, you daft sod, remember? You kept smacking me in the head flailing about-" he plonked Sherlock down on the edge of the bed, pushing his damp curly hair out of the way of his eyes. John couldn't help but feel sorry for him, he never got ill, but the mild virus John had suffered from had hit Sherlock like a freight train. "You should have just called me-"

"I did call!" Sherlock growled, slumping forward with his head in his hands. His shoulders sagged, rocking slightly.

"…I'm sorry…I've just been so tired…I must have slept through." John crouched down in front of him, placing a hand on Sherlock's knee. He looked up at him tentatively. "Do you want to…talk about it?"

Sherlock slowly looked through his fingers at John, eyes dark but… wild. John knew that look, it still caught him out even now. He took a deep breath, as those same fingers reached towards him, skirting his jaw, his neck…a thumb brushing his collar bone. Sherlock was looking at him with such intensity, it was hard to look directly back.

"Come on, back in bed." John pushed him back firmly, nudging his legs up on to the mattress with one knee. "If the fever hasn't broken by morning I'll have to prescribe you something stron-"

Sherlock pulled John down on to the bed with him, rolling him half over, hooking a leg over one of his. He was going to protest, but the words died in his throat when Sherlock pushed his face into the crook of John's neck, sighing.

"…I did call." He repeated groggily, arms wrapped around him. John was a little stunned. Sherlock wasn't exactly the most affectionate boyfriend to ever grace the planet, so this display of vulnerability wasn't going to be forgotten any time soon.

"It's…it's alright." John hugged him back, not caring that he was ringing with sweat. No, actually, in that moment, he was preoccupied with what Sherlock was doing to his neck. He was murmuring incoherently, kissing, pressing against him, the faintest nip of teeth sending less than doctorly vibes through him. "Hey, hey, c'mon pack it in, you're not well-"

Well he tried atleast. Either Sherlock was really out of it or he was just ignoring the warning, but the hand grasping John's hip told him he had no intentions of resting.

"You are a bad influence on me." John whispered, pulling Sherlock's head up to face him. "I'm meant to be taking care of you."

"So…take care of me then…" He wriggled his hips up against John, something very obviously digging into him. John raised his eyebrows, biting the corner of his bottom lip, deciding what to do.

"Get on your back."


	6. Chapter 6

**Anonymous asked: John and Sherlock stranded in a cabin in the woods during a case, because of a snowstorm.**

[lol turned out like a scene from a trashy romance novel]

"Stop being a big baby and get over here."

"I'm fine."

"Sherlock you are going blue… Would you rather risk the storm again OR would you prefer to keep your fingers and toes?"

Sherlock shivered as he looked out of the cracked glass window of the abandoned cabin they'd found in the woods. All the orienteering and map-reading skills in the world couldn't have got them through the trees and back to the main road with near zero visibility.

"We're bloody lucky to have found this place at all, but what we should have done is stayed in the car, not chase him into the forest." John muttered, peering into the wood burning stove that stood in the middle of the room, flue disappearing up into the dilapidated roof.

"This is the closest we've come to Patricks in two days-" He smacked the windowsill in frustration, glaring at the snow drifts sweeping across the glass.

"Yes well… Give it -what? Two weeks? And he'll have thawed out enough for you to get _right up close._" John replied, sarcastically. Luck was on their side, the faint breeze meant the flue was clear. He started piling in a couple of old books and the legs of a chair Sherlock had accidentally smashed when they broke in. It took him three attempts to light some of the pages, his fingers were so stiff from the cold. "There's no way he'll survive out there."

John spent the next five minutes sat on the floor, gently coaxing the fire into life as Sherlock continued to brood. Five minutes more was all he could stand, tutting loudly. "Would you stop looming in the window like some Victorian mourner and come over here please, there's nothing else to be done except wait out the storm."

He frowned, jabbing at the small fire with a wire coat-hanger suddenly feeling not so gentle at all. "You know I'm soaked up to the knees from following you around, I'm tired, and I'm actually really hungry -because unlike you, I have a _normal_ metabolism- so the least you could do is-"

Sherlock plonked down crossed legged, leaning up close against John.

"-sit with me…" Sherlock looked at him with a reluctant smile and John blinked in surprise. "To conserve heat." He clarified shyly, quickly turning his attention back to the struggling flames. John didn't say anything when Sherlock opened up his coat and lazily threw an arm around his shoulder, to share some of it with him. He hoped the shivers disguised the tension that shot through his body at the touch.

It was a sharp reminder of how complicated things had gotten between them. If Sherlock hadn't seemed so romantically closed off to him he would have thought he was doing things like this on purpose. It reminded him of all the other close 'encounters' they'd had recently…

There was Sherlock bumping into him on the stairs, falling down so that John ended up half sprawled on top of him… There was also the time where Sherlock insisted on counting the myriad of tiny scars on his hands when they were meant to be watching TV, fingers pawing at him with an intensity that was typical for Sherlock, but rapidly became very unsettling for John… Then there was the time where they had to squeeze into a tiny gap down the side of two storage containers, chest to chest and Sherlock's arms above his shoulders, whispering an escape plan into his ear…

There was approximately five other times he could remember offhand that had left him questioning his sheepish reactions. Stuff like this had always gone on between them- Sherlock didn't really know the concept of personal space after all. But he'd just been chalking it up to a random increase in his…'admiration' for Sherlock. John wasn't going to scream it from the hill tops or anything, but he had to admit he had a teeny tiny hero complex going on. It helped that Sherlock was a dickhead half the time- it gave him a rest from saying 'wow that's brilliant!' every day.

It was just admiration. That's all.

Sherlock slipped his free hand into the fold behind John's knee where he had his legs crossed, fingers wiggling. John's eyes widened at the feel of Sherlock's grip on what was really the inside of his thigh. He bit his bottom lip. It was admiration, not a crush, because he was straight and didn't fancy men. He fumbled the coat hanger when Sherlock bent his head closer to him.

"What are you doing?" John threw him what he hope was a disgruntled look but it didn't really match the nervous edge to his voice.

"I'm doing as you asked. Conserving heat."

"You never do anything I ask you to do. And technically you're stealing mine-" he put his free hand on top of the one on his leg, a quick squeeze to emphasise.

"That's not true, you asked for milk yesterday and I got it didn't I?"

"I asked you to buy milk. _Buy it_. Not nick it off the doorstep down the road."

"You wanted the milk, I got you the milk." Sherlock peered at him with a sly grin. "You know if you _really_ want to be more energy efficient, what we should actually do is take off our-"

John spluttered, dropping the coat hanger in surprise. "I'll stop you there." He twisted under Sherlock's arm, staring at him directly. They were so close that their breath mixed and crystallised in the cold air between them. "I know exactly what you are up to."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"You're pissed off because Patricks got away from us, and you're stuck here with nothing else to do except try and wind me up by pushing my buttons - well you know what? It's not going to work because actually I'm already _really annoyed_ with you for dragging me out to the arse-end of nowhere, so you shouldn't bother trying to make it worse than it is because it isn't possible - and quite frankly-"

Sherlock's arm slid up sharply, around John's neck, pulling him forward so quickly that the rest of his sentence was cut off by cold lips pressed against his own. One second, two seconds- Sherlock pulled back and looked at him with darkened eyes.

John stared at him dumbfounded, before his expression hardened, upset. "That's not funny." He said quietly.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, arm slipping down to John's lower back. "…I wasn't trying to be funny. If I left it to you I'd be waiting forever."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"Well you _want_ me don't you? You've been going all gooey-eyed over me for the past two months."

John laughed nervously, back straightening, his heart rate jumping through the roof. "_E-excuse me?_ Are you high?"

"I'd like to point out that your hand is still on top of mine."

They both looked down at the same time, but John still didn't move it.

"I'm just…"

"Stealing my heat?" Sherlock offered.

John blushed, frowning. "Piss off would you, I can take you messing with my head but my feelings are strictly off limits." John clasped his hands together, rubbing them to keep warm. "As messed up as they apparently are."

"I could probably help straighten them out for you."

John turned away from him, laughing derisively, reaching for another piece of broken chair to chuck into the stove. "Poor choice of words there, Sherlock." He jammed it in the grate. "I'm not one of your test subjects."

"I'm not the one that wants to be experimental."

They both held up their hands to the fire that was finally beginning to throw out some warmth, John throwing him a sharp look. "So, what? You're not? _You_ kissed _me_."

"Experiments, tests… That implies that the outcome is unknown and needs to be discovered. I actually have known for quite some time that it could only be a positive thing for me. You on the other hand would take a while to come round. I kept leaving hints, kept setting up the situations, I thought for sure you'd make a move when we were pressed up against each other with my mouth this close to your neck-"

John felt a wave of heat sting his cheeks, as Sherlock bent his head again, with a look that was less than friendly…in fact almost predatory. "Sherlock!" The detective clicked his tongue, smiling. He liked the way John pretended he wasn't affected.

"Anyway I'd hardly describe _that_ 'face-bump' as a kiss."

John knew a leading statement when he heard one. He should have steered clear. He should have told Sherlock to shut up and forget about it. But if he did, he'd always be left wondering… But surely it was better to regret the consequences than a missed opportunity?

He turned to Sherlock, practically cheek to cheek at this point, and very aware that it could all go tits up for their friendship. But he was still so cold, and tired and hungry, and Sherlock was being _such_ a deliberate tease, yes truly winding him up in more ways than one…that it sort of muddled up his better judgement.

"Well… what _would_ you describe as a kiss then?"

Sherlock flashed that predatory smile again, and John knew right then and there that he would not be leaving the cabin feeling exactly the same way as he had when he entered it.

He'd be _sorer._

Sherlock grabbed him up in his arms, pushing him down on to his back, with a muffled gasp. Fingers wound into his hair and his eyes closed as Sherlock took his mouth with his own… John giving in so easily to him.

Yes, he decided. _Definitely_ sorer.


	7. Chapter 7

**Anonymous asked: One idea: Sherlock deducing John is in love with him and broaching the subject not so subtly in a crime scene.**

Sherlock rocked on his heels, hands behind his back as Lestrade bleated on at him with nonsense like 'stop yelling at my team,' 'you can't keep banning Anderson' and 'while we're at it stop stealing my ID, I know it's you.'

But he wasn't listening. Well, not really, that was just white noise. No, he was much more interested in the developments with his blogger. The man was crouched down over a discarded bin bag, talking with Anderson. His eyes narrowed as John stood, noting with delight how he unconsciously stepped back away from the other man, folding his arms as he did so.

Sherlock smiled. Time to test the theory.

He left Lestrade where he was, ignoring him, and strode over to the other two. Collar up, back straight, all tall and superior. Superior to Anderson atleast.

"Thoughts?" He asked, voice low and measured as he leant to John, a hand at his elbow to turn him back to the bin liner.

He couldn't help but notice the swallowing movement at John's throat, the unfolding of his arms, the way he turned his back so easily on the waste of space that now stood behind him. Complete focus on Sherlock. Perfect.

"Lacking, I'm sure." John smiled, completely unaware that his eyes were dilating as he looked up at Sherlock. It had started about two weeks ago, when they'd been caught up in a kidnapping. Sherlock had pushed John out of the way of an oncoming car and they'd ended up twisted up in a pile in a ditch. Faces as close as they could be without touching, legs entangled and a look on John's face that he hadn't been able to pin-point…

Until now. It hadn't just been adrenaline after all.

"I'd still like to hear what you have to say."

John narrowed his eyes, still smiling, but dubious. "Right well… Clean dissection, textbook actually, not a drop of blood in any of the parts, I'd say we're looking for someone of a medical profession-"

"Medical profession? Need very steady hands for that." He slipped his fingers around John's wrist, raising his hand to look at it. "You'd be good at that sort of thing, but luckily you have an ironclad conscience."

John stammered but didn't pull away, a mild blush developing across his cheeks. "Uh th-thanks, I guess…" Rapid pulse. Excellent.

"And an alibi-"

"Yes, fuck off Anderson, thanks for yet another useless contribution." Sherlock hissed, feeling much more territorial than usual.

"Now hold on a minute, I've had enough of you talking to me like that!" Anderson pushed John to the side, grabbing Sherlock by his coat lapel. Big mistake. He hooked a foot around Anderson's, smacked his hand upwards and pushed him fully in the chest. Anderson fell backwards straight into the bag of body parts, with a less than manly yelp.

"Anderson what are you doing, you're contaminating the crime scene!" Sherlock said in mock-horror, before Lestrade ran in, looming with all the false-authority he could muster as he dragged Anderson back up on to his feet.

"What the bloody hell is going on now? Can I not leave you alone for five minutes, Sherlock?!" Why was Lestrade mad at him? It was Anderson treading on toes round here. Literally. And fingers, and what was that bit?

"I was actually trying to ask John out since he's clearly in love with me, but your mentally retarded employee over there keeps muscling in on conversations he has NO BUSINESS sticking his nose into, making it VERY DIFFICULT. I mean can't you control your staff at all?"

The whole crime scene descended into quiet, which puzzled Sherlock immensely. He actually thought he'd been quite polite this time. He turned to John for clarification as everyone stared open mouthed. "I did it again didn't I?… Are we still not allowed to say 'retarded?'"

John was also staring at him, embarrassed, but somehow able to smile. The penny dropped.

"Oh."

"… you idiot."


	8. Chapter 8

**Anonymous asked: John is sick-really sick- and Sherlock is left to figure out how to take care of him.**

[I don't know who I am anymore xD]

"John, come on! Come on keep talking. Help is coming, you'll be alright."

"Doooc-t-tor K-K-Kramer?"

Sherlock half dragged, half carried John down the backlit hall, away from the industrial freezer that had nearly cost him his life. And judging from the colour of his lips, the violent shivering, and the slurring, there was a chance it still could.

"Dead." Sherlock had not enjoyed breaking the mans hands to release John, although the noise had been …interesting. He kicked open an office door, peering in. Not right.

"W-what abo-out mmmrs hhhudson?"

Add confusion to the list. As hypothermia went, Sherlock estimated that John was verging on moderate to severe. Not good.

"She's at home, John. In the warm. Probably curled up in front of the heater. Really toasty, probably even too warm-" Sherlock kicked open another office door with his foot, atlast spotting what he was looking for.

"Ruubbin iiit in-"

"Not at all. I'm trying to stimulate your mind to thinking it's warmer than it is- Tibetan nuns use the technique during meditation to increase their body temperature. It's a proven theory."

Sherlock lowered John on to the sofa in the corner of the office, who painfully tried to curl up into the foetal position, but was too stiff to get very far. Sherlock pursed his lips together, rubbing the ice out of his hair, then moved John's hands from under his armpits down into the folds of the sofa. John protested with a stuttered moan.

"Your hands are too cold, you're making yourself cooler by sticking them under your arms. Just hold on. Keep talking."

He dashed to the other side of the room, grabbing the lab coats off the coat-hooks, throwing them towards the sofa.

"I caaant feel m-m-my feet."

"I assure you they are still attached-" _Blankets, blankets, why have a sofa to sleep on at work without some bloody blankets-_ "Aha!" Bottom of the filing cabinet, wool blend, absolutely perfect.

"Not long now. Twenty minutes tops, Lestrade said." The power had been cut to the laboratory, hence the fading emergency backup lighting, and lack of ambulance staff who were waiting above behind the sealed lift with the police. Sherlock kicked his shoes off, adding his coat to the pile, shaking out the blanket to its full spread.

John's head began to roll to the side as Sherlock started stuffing the white coats around him, rumpling them up to trap as much air to insulate as possible. "Hey, hey-" He slapped John on the cheek, getting his attention again, he looked terrible, but he had to stay awake at all costs. If only the electrics had been fully working he could have made use of the kettle but desperate times called for desperate measures. He practically had to wrestle John's leather shoes off, quite possibly spraining one of his ankles, but John just shivered uncontrollably, staring vaguely up at the ceiling through half lidded eyes.

Sherlock wrapped his coat around John's legs and feet. "Afghanistan, tell me about your tours there." He started unbuttoning the front of his black shirt.

John hunched into his shoulders. "I'm t-tired…"

"No, no-" Sherlock was careful not to crush him as he hopped on to the sofa, straddling John low on his hips, grabbing his jacket to twist him more on to his back. "Hands here." Sherlock leant forward, placing John's hands on his waist under his open shirt. Even though he knew John would be cold, it still came as a shock to the senses. "Afghanistan." He prompted, pulling open the buttons on John's jacket.

John was actually looking at him now, blinking rapidly. "W-what aare-?" Sherlock unzipped the front, pulling open the buttons on his cardigan, jerking up the thin tshirt underneath as much as he could.

"Now Doctor, you know exactly what I'm doing. Trying to save your life. Now tell me about your tours!" Sherlock picked the blanket up off the floor, swooping it around him like a cape, bracing himself for something that he was fairly certain would be far more uncomfortable for the human popsicle below him than it would be for himself. When it came to John, he had very little consideration for personal space even at the best of times, and now was no different.

Sherlock settled down over him, doing his best not to crush his best friend, pulling the blanket over the top of both of them to trap the heat as much as possible. Sherlock hissed under his breath at the feeling of John's cold stomach and chest touching against his own.

John on the other hand actually gave a low rumbling noise, instinctively grabbing on as tight as he could. Sherlock felt like he was being hugged by one of those ice golems in that ridiculous film John had made him watch last Boxing Day, but that didn't stop him from hugging back under the darkness of the blanket.

"The…heat." John started, pushing his face against the top of Sherlock's who lay lower than him. It was like a splash of ice water to the senses. "Ohh…it w-was eeevery- everywhere." He made a kind of chattering, wheezy sound that could have been laughter, he wasn't sure. Sherlock could feel his own impulse to shiver, but it faded in comparison to the ones that John was shaking him with. He nudged him to continue.

"Y-you could… Feel a-a man b-breathing a…m-mile away." This time he was sure of the laughter, he was sure of the cold fingers pushing into the skin of his back. He'd never…been this close to John before. It wasn't what he expected.

"Go on."

"Y-you found me."

Sherlock rubbed his side, encouraged John to tighten his arms, "ofcourse. I always do don't I?"

"I…I m-messed…up." His voice changed, became quiet despite the stuttering. "W-wast-ed my chance…" Sherlock frowned, not understanding.

"Lestrade caught him though. It's all fine. He's in custody. They'll restore power soon. You didn't mess up. You'll be fine, you haven't missed any chances."

"I won-der… Sometimes…when you l-look at me…" Sherlock was suddenly listening very intently. "D-do you t-think of me…when I'm n-not there?"

Sherlock felt the prickle of doubt and fear trying to override his reasoning, but he pushed it down. He'd got to John in time, it would be fine. He shifted, trying to get more skin on skin. "Don't talk like that, you're not dying. Your heart-rate is stronger already." But John didn't seem to be listening, he sounded almost like he was day-dreaming…

"I s-should have t-told you…" He tightened his grip briefly before it slipped again, coordination still not strong. "T-told you alot…more…"

"John, you are NOT dying, you're just confused-"

John giggled, a ridiculous noise cut short by chattering teeth for a moment, "that's wha-what Harry said." Sherlock felt John sigh, a strange tingling feeling overriding his own chills as John rubbed his cheek in his head. "C-confuuuused. 'You can't b-be g-gay you don't like m-men.'"

"Riiiight." Sherlock's eyes widened in the dark- the implication of what John was saying might as well have been written across the sky in huge letters it was so clear. He didn't let go. "Well, John, you definitely have to get better now."

"H-huh?"

The sound of machinery and electronics whirled into life around them, fluorescent lights cutting through the weave of the blanket as the power was restored to the lab block. It was just enough so that he could finally see John again. Sherlock smiled.

"Well, it would be down right rude not to take advantage of a second chance, wouldn't it?" He knew John understood by the way his mouth popped open. Or that could have just been a reaction to him getting feeling back in certain regions. Chiefly the spot just to the side of his hip, that Sherlock had just given a reassuring squeeze.

"Y-you're m-married to y-your work-"

Sherlock gave him a conspiratorial look. "We could start an affair…" A slow smile. He scooted up a little, a hand on the side of his face, and kissed the very corner of John's mouth. He'd wanted to do more than that for a very long time…but priorities came first. "Although how about we get you home first?"

John nodded, heat showing in his gaze and in his shivering smile if nowhere else. "Well… T-that woke me u-up a bit."

"If I'd known that earlier I would have acted sooner." Sherlock muttered, throwing back the covers, hearing footsteps running. "Lestrade! In here!"

The footsteps doubled back, three figures crowding in. Lestrade and two medics. His eyebrows shot up as Sherlock swung off him and the paramedics rushed to help John. "Blimey! You know I can have you done for sexual assault right?" He joked, but the concern for John was evident in his face.

"It's not assault if he wanted it." Sherlock said, with a sly smile. Lestrade choked.

"I'm r-right here, y-you b-bastards." John choked, grinning as he was trussed up like a jacket potato in one of those emergency foil blankets. Still deathly pale but clarity shining in his eyes…

"And that is the story of how Sherlock saved my life. Twice." John said, raising a glass to his partner, who sat next to him at the top table. He put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, silver wedding band glinting in the evening light streaming through the windows.

The crowd aww'd and ahh'd and laughed, and Sherlock- typically the aloof and proud one- allowed John this one moment to indulge in it without some sassy remark. A small smile appeared at the edge of his mouth as he looked up at him. His left hand crossing over to touch his, a matching ring shining there.

Things were better in pairs after all.

[SURPRISE FLUFFTWIST LAWL]


	9. Chapter 9

**finnoirchat asked: Hi! Popping up to offer a prompt for a ficlet. John comes home stupendously drunk and annoying. Next morning Sherlock decides to take revenge and make an ass of him. He leaves lots of evidence and makes it look like they were more than just friendly to each other previous night. Could include revelations and epiphanies. ;) Hope it's not too threadbare, and if it is, well, you do have your own unique vision of most trivial things and make them look really exciting. :)**

[pffffft I loved this prompt but I think I mullered it!]

John stood in the doorway of the living room, his mouth hanging open in shock. He'd just woken up naked surrounded by a couple of broken condom packets, a spilt bottle of lube and clothes that were not his and not a woman's.

Sherlock put on his best glare, sat in his armchair wrapped up in John's blanket. He was really going to enjoy torturing John over this. He'd come in blind drunk last night, got into a tussle with him and destroyed an experiment that had taken TWO WEEKS to come to fruition and Sherlock was going to have his revenge. He'd spent the best part of the morning cooking up the best way to prank him and this was it. He wished he had a camera.

John had been spluttering for about five minutes with the false realisation, but atleast he'd had the curtesy to put his underwear on before staggering down the stairs waving a pair of Sherlock's trousers. Red was quite the colour on him.

"I…don't… Oh god…I don't remember it…"

"Well, you sure know how to make a girl feel good, John, thanks." Sherlock said sarcastically, looking hurt, but secretly screaming with glee inside. This was TOO easy.

By now John looked totally aghast, letting the trousers drop to the floor, slumping down on the sofa. He looked so shell-shocked that Sherlock almost felt bad for him, he almost gave up the ruse. But then John cut in before he could say anything.

"I didn't… I mean I didn't hurt you did I?"

He couldn't resist.

"I'm hardly a delicate virgin, where do you think the lube came from?" John started to go red. Sherlock raised his hands, swivelling the wrists, showing the mottled bruising on his forearms where John had actually been trying to swing him around for a dance. He was a surprisingly strong drunk. "Although, I was a bit surprised by just how rough you liked it. Not that I'm complaining… you know me so well after all."

"Oh god I'm so sorry, Sherlock." He put his head in his hands. "I can't believe I can't remember our first time."

Sherlock was struck dumb by the comment. Just for a split second.

"W-what?" This wasn't right. Sherlock had expected him to start yelling about how he should have known better, that he was the sober one, that he knew Judo for Christ's sake why didn't he just knock him out? He was meant to be devastated about sleeping with him, not devastated about not remembering it.

A very vivid image of John, blind drunk on the bed as Sherlock wrestled him in popped up in his mind.

_"I love you, I bloody love you Sherlock, I'm sorry I do. "_

His mouth went dry. It suddenly wasn't very funny anymore.

"I bet it was really awful too, ugh, I can't believe it. I've hurt you and I've… Oh god I've ruined it, haven't I? Oh no wonder you're angry with me, you must think I'm a total bastard- that I just want you when I'm drunk and really Sherlock, really it's not like that-"

"Shut up."

John looked at him sharply. "W-what?" His turn to stammer.

Sherlock took a deep breath, a flutter of unruly emotions threatening to burst out of him if he didn't keep tight control. Where had he been hiding those? His expression cooled, wrapping the blanket tightly around him, trying to be nonchalant about the whole thing. "You weren't bad. It wasn't awful-"

"You're just saying that to spare my feelings."

"When have I ever spared your feelings?"

"Well…" John straightened up, trying to be brave. "You wouldn't have let me do those things… if you didn't feel something for me right?"

Feel something? His stomach fluttered, but still he had to be a smart mouth. "I'm not entitled to an easy lay?"

"You don't like things easy." John shot back. Sherlock's expression softened.

"You weren't bad. It wasn't awful." He repeated, and this was the part where he should have said: because it didn't happen. But something came out instead. "I mean, we could…I don't know…replicate the findings if my testimony isn't convincing enough for you." What in Gods name was he saying?

"Replicate…" John echoed, eyes sliding down to the exposed skin of Sherlock's neck. The look did strange things to Sherlock's heart rate. He let the blanket slide off his shoulders slightly… John noticed.

Well this was unexpected. "I should apologise really… I was the one that's been ignoring the signs." Sherlock looked down at his hands, twisting the fabric in his fingers. "I didn't take you seriously…"

"You just like the attention." Sherlock bristled, a bit offended that John thought just anyone would do.

It was more than that. He'd enjoyed placing the clues and setting up this whole scenario just a little too much. He had a very active visual memory, and an elaborate imagination. He'd be a liar if the thought of them being together hadn't occurred to him on more than one occasion. He just didn't think John would be as affected.

"I didn't think I was an option." He said, a little more forcefully than was necessary.

"So what was last night then? A pity fuck?" John winced at the volume in his own voice, but the anger remained.

"For you or for me?" Sherlock snapped back, feeling the surreal nature of arguing over something he'd made up as a joke, but still unable to end it.

"Don't take the piss, I feel bad enough as it is."

"I'm sorry, how much did you actually drink? Were you not present less than one minute ago when I offered a repeat of last night?"

John gave him a heated look. "You don't even know what you're saying."

Sherlock's bare toes wriggled on the floor, this was getting very interesting, getting very exciting, this was probably his only chance. Oh god it was perfect! This, this was exactly what they needed, what they should have been doing long ago- they'd been avoiding it the whole time and now this was the perfect escape route. This was it.

"I'm saying…I wouldn't mind if you wanted to try and get your memories back by repeating some of the circumstances. I'm saying I wouldn't mind this." Sherlock gestured a hand between the two of them. Giving him a very pointed and direct stare. He licked his lips, a little annoyed that he could feel some heat rising in his cheeks. "On a recurring basis. Actually."

John blinked once, a sharp intake of breath. One small nod. A smile. Sherlock shrugged off the blanket, eyes widening as John strode towards him.

For a man with a hangover he could sure move fast when he wanted.

"Oh!"


	10. Chapter 10

**Anonymous asked: John returns home tired and sad after the death of a patient. Sherlock is in the middle of a messy experiment.**

[deeeeerp, this was a sweet prompt, hope you like]

"John! Kitchen!"

He'd not even got the front door closed before Sherlock was bellowing down at him. John rubbed his eyes, trudging up the stairs, gravity threatening to drag him down to the floor if he didn't fight against it.

He pushed open the kitchen door, his whole body sagging at the sight of the chaos that now overran it.

"Oh for fucks sake…" He whispered under his breath as Sherlock scooted past him, dragging wires across the kitchen table which now looked like a scene from Frankenstein with bubbling concoctions and strange liquids in vials and- was that a finger? A bowl full of fingers. And tongues. Brilliant.

"Perfect. Hold this would you?" Sherlock shoved a thick clear hose at him which had bright pink fluid gurgling through it. John put one hand on his hip, waved him away with the other, but Sherlock wasn't even looking, just shook the hose at him.

"No. Sherlock it's half eleven, I'm tired and I need a shower, I've just come back from the hospital-"

Sherlock pushed the hose into his hand, forcing Johns fingers to close around it.  
"Just raise it above your head about….yes, six inches should do it."

"I'm serious- Sherlock -" but he was cut off by the sound of a loud timer going off on the other side of the table. The detective pumped a valve on a contraption clamped to the edge of the table, becoming increasingly more excited about what was happening in the jar of tongues. He gestured wildly, again without looking in Johns direction, for him to raise the hose.

John pursed his lips together, brow forming into the frown of a desperately exhausted man who just wanted to wash away the days filth and crawl into bed for a week. But the fight had gone out of him tonight. The day had been a little too much and it would be easier to do this than deal with an irritable Sherlock on top of it all… So he put up with it. He raised the hose to get it over with.

It was only after a full ten minutes of holding the hose dutifully and without further complaint, that Sherlock finally did his 'eureka!' moment, punching the air as the fluid in the hose turned baby blue.

John left him alone to celebrate, heading quietly to the bathroom. The next few minutes passed in a total daze. So much so that he was in the shower, out the shower and back in it again because half of him was still soapy. He was a human yo-yo tonight.

Sherlock was still clamouring and clanging about in the kitchen when he turned left instead of right, heading straight into Sherlock's bedroom. Wrapped up in towels he pulled back the covers and shuffled between the sheets. Eyes shut, headache throbbing at the base of his skull.

"…Hospital…"

John lurched back into the waking world, all foggy headed and aching muscles. He felt like death warmed up. An arm wrapped around him, warmth spooning up against his back, the flutter of breath at his ear. How long had he been asleep? "What…?" He half heartedly tried to pull away from Sherlock but he was clearly having none of it, fingers flattening against him.

"Earlier. When you came in. You said you'd been at the hospital. Not at work."

"Caught on just now did you?" He could just about see the clock over the scrunched up blankets. "That was three hours ago." Only three hours. It had felt like an instant.

"You have a habit of getting into my bed when you've had a bad one. A bad day."

"Yes, well, you get into mine all the time, I can get into yours."

"Is this one of those things that normal couples do? Like wearing your lovers shirt, or cuddling a teddy bear they bought you? For comfort?" Sherlock wasn't mocking, he was trying to work out the answer to this strange behaviour. He'd nailed it straight on the head but John was grumpy, he was upset.

"'Normal?'" John elbowed him back so he could roll over and give him the full force of his irritability, face to face. "Well I've got a fat chance of that happening haven't I? You didn't even notice I wasn't home."

"John, it's this case, you know how I get-"

"And you know how I get. I've got a job too you know." He sat up, pushing back the blankets and towels, exposed from the waist up. "And it's important even if it isn't as exciting as what you do. It's probably even more important because there is no great mystery, there is no mastermind or plots behind it all, because my work is mundane, because the mundane kills, because people get sick, grow old and die and there is no big discovery to be had, you just have to get on with it. You just have to say 'next please!' and hope its just a snotty toddler with a cold and not someone about to have a fatal coronary." He thumped the blankets covering his legs. "Alright?!"

The silence was palpable. John wiped his hands over his eyes, trying to reign back some self control.

"…You can't save everyone."

"I know, I know…'caring is not an advantage' I know. I just…" He felt Sherlock place an open hand on his back, a small thing, but so soothing. "I just wanted to save him." He jammed his mouth shut, looking down at his hands.

"Come on." Sherlock pulled at him, wanting him to lay back down. John shook his head.

"Your experiment-"

"A resounding success thanks to my beautiful assistant."

John gave one snort of laughter, but it faded so quickly. He lay back down, brow furrowed, sighing. "I'm just tired. Really. Just ignore me… I don't know what I'm saying half the time."

Sherlock scooted closer, pushing past the slight resistance he put up. John didn't like to look weak or too emotional, but if he really needed something, then Sherlock had to give it. He wrapped John up in a hug, head resting on top of his.

"My fault. I drain the life out of you. I don't know how you put up with me." Genuine wonder in his voice.

John paused. "Because of this." He hugged back. "I'm the only one you go looking for. Even if it does take you three hours." He yawned.

John could feel the smile pressed against his head. "Go back to sleep…You'll feel different in the morning."

And Sherlock was hardly ever wrong.


	11. Chapter 11

**Anonymous asked: John is hurt during a case and is at the hospital. How does Sherlock cope?**

[WARNING: this ficlet contains descriptions of blood and violence. This was probably a little more dramatic than you wanted…but I got massive feels writing it so I just went with it]

"I'm sorry sir that's a restricted area, you can't go with him!"

The double doors swung back and forward giving Sherlock several sickening snapshots of John being rushed away from him on a gurney, a medical team rushing him into emergency surgery.

_You can't go with him._

He stood there, mouth slack, ears ringing as the nurse turned him away, pulling him along. He could see her lips moving, knew somewhere vaguely that the movement meant she was actually talking to him, but his ears didn't seem to be functioning properly anymore. Nothing seemed to be working properly. He couldn't think, everything was white noise, white walls, white floor, white chairs whitewhite_WHITE-_

And _red. _

Sherlock's eyes widened as he looked down at his hands, mouth popping into a silent _'oh.'_ John's blood was all over his hands, drying up, sticking his fingers together. It was so thick, he could barely see his wedding ring.

"I've got him, I've got him thank you yes- _yes_. Have you got somewhere I can take him?"

Sherlock barely registered Lestrade's firm grip on his arm, he didn't even try to resist being led into the disabled toilets, he was too busy staring down the front of himself at the splash patterns on his shirt. He could feel his heart racing, pounding in his ears.

"Hey, hey come on, Sherlock, can you hear me?" Lestrade pushed him down on to the bin next to the sink, a hand on his neck trying to get Sherlock to look at him with a shake.

"Y-yes. Yes." He began to gulp in air, suddenly very hot, face quickly changing from blank to outright panic. "Oh God. Lestrade, I'm-"

"Shhhh, it's alright. It's alright, John's in surgery, he's been in for nearly an hour, they don't expect it to be much longer, it was a clean wound."

Sherlock shook his head in disbelief. "An hour? What? No I just saw him, he was _right there_ just now…i-in my arms-" his hands were shaking.

"You've been staring at a wall, they couldn't get a word out of you, they couldn't even move you- I told you I'd come back remember? He'll go down for attempted murder as well as the slave trading. They'll throw the book at that bastard. Don't worry. John will be fine, he always is."

"My ring, Lestrade, m-my wedding ring- ah. _Oh god,_ John's going to go mad- he's going to be r-really mad-!" Sherlock's voice began to get louder and louder, Lestrade shushing him and forcing his hands into the sink flipping the taps on.

"No, he won't." He practically wrenched the bag of soap out of the top of the broken dispenser and tore it open, sluicing it over Sherlock's blood soaked hands. "Ofcourse he won't Sherlock, see?" Lestrade knelt on the floor in front of him, dark circles round his eyes but a warm smile on his face, trying to be comforting.

His steady hands worked off the blood far more quickly than Sherlock could achieve by himself in his current state. The DI took particular care in cleaning off the platinum band, until it was shining like new again. "See, it's fine." He gripped Sherlock's knee, getting his attention, leaving a wet hand print there. "Just like John will be."

Sherlock frowned, but nodded slowly, biting his bottom lip. "He shouldn't have followed me. He shouldn't have… done that." John had seen the attack coming and stepped between him and the knife, catching it in his side. Sherlock had nearly killed the man with his bare hands in the struggle, strangling him unconscious before he realised how seriously injured John was. He'd been stood so quietly… Everything after calling the ambulance was a blur.

"You'd have done the same for him."

His hands steadied as he dried them on the paper towels Lestrade passed him. Sherlock felt shivery all over… but slowly, his back straightened, his breathing levelled and his mind started to string his ideas and thoughts back together. He blinked hard a few times, like he'd been stuck under water and was finally coming up for air.

"Yes… Ofcourse I would have."

"Ready to go out there?" Lestrade got up using the sink as leverage to drag himself to his feet, his knees weren't exactly what they used to be. Sherlock joined him, smoothing out the front of his coat, chin held high. He took a deep breath, fingering his wedding band… before looking at Lestrade with a strained expression.

"Thank you, Greg."

Lestrade gave him a tight smile, genuinely moved by the thanks, but conscious that this was not the time to start grinning - it was just Sherlock rarely acknowledged him by his first name. "Don't mention it. I'm…just glad I could help."

Sherlock opened the door and gestured for Lestrade to go through. Outside, a familiar face was waiting for them, talking with a nurse in a surgical mask. It took Sherlock all of two seconds to look between his brother Mycroft and the nurse to deduce exactly what was going on.

The relief hit him like a freight train, hooking an arm around Lestrade so fast he nearly knocked the detective over.

He'd never smiled so hard.


	12. Chapter 12

**Anonymous asked: prompt: It's Sherlock and John's first anniversary. What are they going to buy as a gift for each other?**

[Side note: if this has been written about before, it's just coincidence! I only recently fell in love with married!lock so the gifts seem pretty obvious to me. Traditional 1st Year anniversary gift is paper-based btw. Also I have a secret crush on double-barrelled names :3 ]

"We both agreed a budget, so you better not have gone over it."

"For the last time, I haven't, John. I promised." His mouth quirked into a half smile seeing John narrow his eyes at him suspiciously. "Anyway are you actually sure it's not too late to cancel everything, only I have a quite pressing experiment to monitor in the lab-"

"You can doss-about downstairs as much as you like-" John pushed Sherlock firmly down on to the sofa. "-After the party. C'mon cheer up, Mike and Greg put alot of effort into it. I'm excited even if you aren't." He said, fiddling with a cufflink as he plonked down next to him.

"Is Anderson still banned?"

John rolled his eyes. "He doesn't even want to come."

But Sherlock just scoffed a short laugh. "Yes he bloody does." He leant back, a hand smoothing out a crease on the back of John's suit collar, light catching on his platinum wedding band. "Actually I'm feeling quite magnanimous… he can come."

"Oh that's good, 'cos he already is."

"What? But you said-"

John grinned, pointing at a large black gift bag at the end of the sofa. "Is that my present?"

"Hmm well I don't know if _devious_ bloggers are allowed anniversary presents now-" John leant across him, planting a kiss on his mouth with one hand slowly stretching towards the bag. Sherlock elbowed him off playfully, snatching the bag out of reach. Whatever it was it looked heavy.

"Oh come on I'd knew you'd come around. Give it to me." Sherlock grinned mischievously. He put an arm around John and slid the bag on to his lap, kissing the side of his neck in the one particular spot that he knew made him flustered.

_Three, two, one-_ John was blushing and Sherlock was smug. He released him, leaning back again to enjoy the show. "Happy Anniversary."

John glared at him for a second, but a smile soon appeared, happy that any fears about the passion dying after marriage were clearly unfounded. He turned towards him slightly so Sherlock could see him pull out a large square box, tied up with purple ribbon and a tag.

_Hope you like this 'budget' gift. - SWH_

John couldn't help but laugh at the message as he pulled off the ribbon and lifted off the lid. His eyes widened slightly at what was staring up at him. It was a dark brown, leather bound photo album, embossed with gold initials : SWH & JWH. He pulled it out and discarded the box. Sherlock's hand rested on his lower back as John opened up the the album.

Inside on the first page was a photograph of them sat ready to sign the registers on their wedding day. They weren't looking at the camera, they were looking at each other. "Oh… Sherlock this is my favourite photo from the wedding…" He mumbled, touched by the warm memories of that day.

He looked through the first few pages and was amazed to see that Sherlock had managed to get a wealth of original colour photos starting as far back as some of their earlier cases together. As the pages passed on, they went from purely paparazzi shots to filtering in more photos from their friends and family, even some John had taken himself.

It was a perfect time-lapse of their relationship- no wonder everyone had assumed they were together for so long before they actually hooked up. It pretty much showed John slowly falling in love, interspersed with a few very telling shots that revealed Sherlock doing the same. Each photo was beautifully hand annotated in Sherlock's fine handwriting.

"There's plenty of space in the back…to add more." Sherlock said, watching his face.

John frowned, mouth pinched together briefly, eyes suddenly quite glossy. It was the expression he pulled when he was trying not to be emotional. A deep breath, a few emphatic nods. "This… is brilliant. Thank you." He looked at the clock, hands gripping the edges of the album. "I wish we had more time to go through it properly… But I've got to give your present."

John put the album to one side carefully and bent over, reaching down underneath the sofa. Sherlock had to lift his leg to make room for what he brought up. It was in a red carrier bag, it was rectangular, approximately 10 by 13 inches. Some weight to it, and he could see a beveled edge from the way John held it.

"Ah so you went for a photo too."

John ignored him, placing it in his lap, a slightly embarrassed edge in the way he spoke. "Before you open it, you should know that I guess it did kind of start off as a joke gift… So, well, it's really not as good as what you got for me, I mean this album is really- wow- it's just so-"

"Stop fussing, I'll love it." Oh god what was this a photo of? Not him in that bloody hat and John laughing-

John stopped him from pulling out the frame, instead, pulling out a large envelop for him to look at. "This bit first."

Sherlock eyed him curiously, pulling out a sheath of papers. He began to read the top page as John watched him intently. After flicking through the rest of the papers in complete silence for more than a minute, John couldn't take the suspense. "Well?"

Sherlock looked a little confused, re-reading the front page. "You said there was a budget."

"Yes I stuck to it-"

"No, no, _no_- I may not know much about the solar system but there is _no way_ you can buy a pair of stars for fifty pounds."

John began to laugh, whilst Sherlock looked genuinely put-out that John had somehow cheated. He flopped back next to Sherlock and took the papers out of his hands. "I didn't _buy_ you two stars, I _named_ you two stars." He gestured to the bag, and Sherlock pulled the frame out.

It was a photo of a galaxy of stars, with a magnified section in the lower right, mounted in a brushed black antique frame with a gold plaque set in the bottom. It read: _The Watson-Holmes Twin Stars, Andromeda Galaxy._

"That's you on the left, me on the right." John said shyly, as Sherlock inspected the photo. "Andromeda is our neighbouring galaxy."

Sherlock glanced at him. "This… isn't our galaxy?" He murmured. John could have taken this golden opportunity to take the piss over his lack of knowledge, but didn't. Couldn't. Not today.

"No, we're in The Milky Way- no I'm not joking that's what it's called." They huddled over the photo as John explained. "This is our view from Earth, and the newly named Watson-Holmes stars are about 2,400,000 years young. Interesting fact about Andromeda is that it's apparently one of the oldest sources of light you can see with the naked eye."

"How old?"

"Two million years," John smiled, very pleased to see that it had piqued his interest. "The light takes so long to get here, that what we see is actually a snap shot in time… It's the light that was being emitted when the first genus of man began to roam the earth. Our ancestors."  
He swallowed nervously.

Sherlock read the question in his face, gaze softening. "It's perfect…" He whispered, closing the gap between them, hand on John's neck as he kissed him, softly and then harder, a passionate finish before leaping up with the frame. "I have to find a place to hang it. My lab! _Obviously!_" He rushed out of the living room dashing down the stairs. John was slightly more delayed in getting up, pleasantly dazed at his success, running out to lean over the railing.

"Leave it until later-"

"_Noooo._"

"We're going to be late!"

Sherlock ran back into view, smiling. "We're the guests of honour- we have to be late! Now get down here and help me, Mr Watson-Holmes, your husband needs your discerning eye."

John jogged down the stairs after him, smacking Sherlock playfully on the behind as they headed into 221C. "Discerning?"

Sherlock grinned, over his shoulder at him. "You married _me_ didn't you?"

He sighed as he rolled his eyes again. "Happy Anniversary, Mr Modest."

"There'll be plenty more where this came from." Sherlock replied, his expression suddenly as serious and disarming as it always was. A look passed between them that was so much more than words could ever convey.

John breathed a sigh of relief as he watched Sherlock excitedly hold it up in random places, trying to decide where to hang it.

The present had gone down extremely well. But what the bloody Hell was he going to get him next year?


	13. Chapter 13

**Anonymous asked: FICLET PROMPT. John is just trying to make tea in the kitchen but gets hurt when Sherlock's current experiment goes wrong.**

[Loved this prompt…. but meh.. feel like I could have done better, sorry nonny T_T ]

After the first half an hour of Sherlock tutting and clattering about with his experiments in the kitchen, getting progressively louder over time, John had resorted to sticking his headphones in to watch the documentary on his laptop. This was their shared space, and _dammit_, he was not going to slink off to his room for peace and quiet. And no his stubbornness had absolutely nothing to do with the disagreement they'd had about keeping fungal spores in the cabinet by the sink.

Another twenty minutes and the documentary finished, coinciding with Sherlock rushing out of the room. "-okay, John? Just got to see if Mrs Hudson has any left."

"What?" But he was gone and down the stairs. Sherlock had atleast got to the point in their relationship where he could verbalise some of his intentions, even if he hadn't quite mastered the corresponding '_listening to others_' part.

John pouted in thought as he twirled the headphones in his fingers. What in God's name had he just watched? It was like that eye-flash thing in Men In Black that made you lose your memory, only he was actually aware of the missing memory sensation. He'd spent nearly an hour trying to pretend he wasn't bothered by the fungal spores, the fingers next to the toaster _and_ the fact that Sherlock had forgotten what day it was.

Date night.

Sherlock had been so wrapped up in his latest tests and discoveries that John couldn't get a word in edgeways. So he'd cancelled the table and festered angrily in his armchair instead._ Brilliant. Not a waste of my time at all._

John put his laptop down and walked into the kitchen, hoping to God that there was nothing ominous in the kettle because he was absolutely gasping for the soothing effects of a tasty brew.

_Christ Almighty look at the state of it._

It was like bloody Fantasia in there… all bubbling liquids, neon lights, Bunsen burners lit to full whack- his eyes followed the trail of pipes to a gas canister and a vat of indigo liquid bubbling underneath the table cloth. He frowned in concern, there literally wasn't an inch of spare space on the table, and what in God's name was that smell?

Picking up the kettle, he started filling it up at the sink, deep in thought. This was getting seriously out of hand - he was going to have to discuss with Sherlock about hiring out a lab or something. No doubt there would be red tape involved, but Mycroft owed them a favour - several favours in fact - and now so did Sherlock.

John was so busy muttering to himself that he didn't notice the tinny whining noise until it had escalated into an unavoidably high pitch. John flicked the switch down on the kettle and turned to face the table, to see what was making the noise. But he'd been in labs before- he _should_ have known what it meant.

It happened so quickly, he had no time to avoid it. The heated jar nearest to him cracked all the way up it's side before it shattered violently, spraying outwards in all directions. John yelled in surprise as he ducked out of the way, trying to avoid the splash of the contents, but completely unable to. After several moments of stunned blinking, he glanced up gingerly as Sherlock bounded back into the room carrying a bottle of bleach. John glared up at him as he turned off the gas under the table.

"This stuff better not be poisonous or corrosive." He said gesturing to his sleeve which was covered in wet splashes.

Practically the whole table of mini experiments was awash with bits of broken glass and blue liquid. But they all slowly died down now that the heat had been removed. Sherlock straightened, eyes wide through his goggles.

John tensed, sticking his chin out stubbornly, gesturing over the mess. "Okay, don't look at me like that- I didn't _do_ anything, I didn't even touch anything. I was just trying to make some tea-" the kettle popped off the boil with perfect timing "- and the bloody thing exploded!"

Sherlock dumped the bottle down and whipped off his goggles, chucking them without regard into the mess on the table. "John, you're _bleeding_."

His face went blank for a second as Sherlock moved to him, slowly looking down himself to see a patch of blood blooming through his green cotton shirt.

"Oh." He wished he hadn't looked because as soon as he did he hissed through the well of pain that rose up from the side of his stomach. "_Oh_ _shit_." He clamped one hand down on top of it, feeling the wet heat under his fingers, grabbing Sherlock's shoulder with the other as he was quickly herded to the bathroom.

He perched on the edge of the bath very carefully, as Sherlock knelt in front of him and undid his buttons. Grimacing as he was helped out of his shirt, he lifted his hand briefly to free his arm from the sleeve, before clamping it back down on the wound. "Surprisingly not our worst date." He muttered with a lop-sided smile.

Sherlock's mouth popped open in surprise, the realisation evident on his face. His mouth pinched together, the top of his nose crinkling in annoyance at having forgot. "You should have said something."

"I _tried_. You were busy." He nodded to the ceiling, continuing before Sherlock could comment. "Nip upstairs and get my field kit would you?"

"Under the bed, grey box in the green case-" Sherlock rose to his feet, dashing out into the hall, more talking to himself than asking for confirmation. "Behind the storage tub full of those awful knitted Christmas jumpers."

"You've been mind-mapping my stuff again?" John laughed and immediately swore from the stabbing pain it generated. He should have found it creepy and invasive, instead he was weirdly flattered.

Grudgingly he peered down underneath his bloodied hand, nose wrinkling at the near two inch gash to far right of his belly button. A piece of glass had cut through his shirt, leaving a shallow slice that deepened significantly on the far side. It was still bleeding out, soaking the top of his jeans.

It never ceased to amaze him how_ easy_ it was to forget pain after the fact, to the point where it was as if you were feeling it for the first time.

John shook his head in resignation, bunching up his shirt, pressing it to the wound. He'd never been a fan of the light green colour anyway.

Sherlock skidded back in the room, putting the open box on the corner of the bath and John pulled him back down with his free hand until he was on his knees in front of him again. "Press here for me." Sherlock replaced his hand with his own, pushing the cloth up against him, but something in the change of the angle made John yell in pained surprise.

Sherlock looked at him nervously. "How deep is it?"

John didn't bother to wash his hand like he'd intended, just shoved it straight into the kit, rummaging around. "_Nng-_ little bit deeper I should imagine. Wondered why it wasn't slowing- still got some glass in there." He handed Sherlock a pair of surgical tweezers. "I can't see from this angle, you get it."

"You're sweating." Sherlock took the tweezers, a slight flicker of worry in his eyes as he glanced up at him and then down to the wound as he pulled the cloth away.

"I've had worse- come on, get stuck in." He gripped the edge of the bath, but was actually quite relaxed about directing Sherlock to do something that was going to bloody well sting. "Pucker it from the side and see if you can feel it with the edge of the tweezers."

"Not necessary…" Sherlock's mouth opened slightly in concentration, his tongue peeking at the corner of it as he leant in. John got the impression he was trying to hide the dark fascination he was prone to, but didn't comment as he leant into John, arm steadied on his knee. "I can see _something_ just poking out… Fresh flow must have loosened it."

John gritted his teeth, looking up as he felt a snag against his skin, a familiar wave of white heat scraping the nerves. But he couldn't fault Sherlock for his precision- within seconds he was breathing a sigh of relief as he held up a piece of glass to the light. It seemed rather small in relation to the pain it caused, but fit the design of the cut quite perfectly. He dropped both the glass and the tweezers into the sink and opened up a thick medical dressing pad without prompting from John, pressing it up against him and holding it there.

"What was in that glass anyway? It's not going to give me an extra limb is it?"

"No, no… It was a plant extract…some antiseptic and you'll be fine."

"That's a relief." He put a hand over Sherlock's, the drying blood on both sticking their fingers together. "I might live long enough to see you cheer the bloody Hell up." John teased, pushing the fingers of his clean hand through Sherlock's dark curly hair.

His eyes half closed at the touch, but he was still visibly annoyed. "That glass should have maintained three times the heat and pressure that was being generated… I'm sorry… there must have been a defect in it."

John saw the tell-tale glaze to his eyes that more often than not indicated his mind was kicking into overdrive. "Hey… Earth to Sherlock. It was an _accident_."

You would have thought Sherlock was the one to be injured as he snapped back. "It could have been a fatal one. What if that piece of glass had struck you in the neck?"

John sighed at the dramatics. "Sherlock-"

"Or what if it had _blinded_ you?"

"Sherlock, _listen_-"

His eyes darted back to John's, a hurt expression on his face. "And you thought I was more worried about my experiments than your safety."

"Don't give me all that, mister - you and I both know that had I not been injured, you would have chewed me out for ruining your experiments." The wound throbbed with a tolerable but sharp ache, but if it stopped bleeding in the next five minutes he'd hopefully be able to get away with butterfly stitches rather than suturing. "You are just getting a little bit more upset than usual because you have been up for two days_- again_ - and need some sleep." John rubbed the back of Sherlock's neck, feeling surprisingly tired himself after all the unexpected fuss.

"I thought you said you didn't do anything?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes, eyebrows quirking in mock-suspicion.

"I _didn't!_" John squeaked in defence. He tried not to laugh, but a few giggles still escaped. "Don't- don't it hurts to laugh." Sherlock's face immediately went blank but that just made John laugh harder, wincing in pain between gasps- no one could do Instant Deadpan like Sherlock. "Stop it you pillock."

"And they say romance is dead."

"You owe me, you so_ totally_ owe me." He wound his fingers in the base of Sherlock's hair, tugging playfully.

"Okay…" John watched him mull something over, curiously. "How about we get you patched up… ply you with painkillers… strip you naked… and get you to bed… where I can show you the full extent of my remorse. _Repeatedly._"

"Well if I knew a little blood was going to get your attention, I'd have gotten myself stabbed earlier."

Sherlock's smile vanished instantly, replaced with pursed lips, and darkened eyes. John immediately regretted making such a tasteless joke. With anyone else it would have been a funny bit of black humour, but Sherlock had repeatedly proven himself to be quite precious about John's well-being. And this was coming from a man who had on more than one occasion actually made John the subject of some of his tests.

It was a weird quirk to their relationship- he could purposely electrocute or drug John in the name of science, but Heaven forbid he accidentally cut himself on a kitchen knife or someone tried to shoot him. When that happened Sherlock was prone to black moods… and unflinching violence on his assailants. When had this become normal- and a comfort?

John leant forward, and Sherlock protested, knowing it was hurting him. But he pulled Sherlock's head to his and kissed him firmly on the mouth. Once, twice- before Sherlock finally softened and gave in to him.

It never ceased to amaze him how _terrible_ it was to forget this pleasure after the fact… to the point where it was as if you were feeling it… _for the first time._

"Pass me the stitches and take me to bed."


	14. Chapter 14

**Johnlock Prompt From Christine Eponine**(Hope you like it D: )

_**[After solving a particularly challenging crime where John pushes Sherlock out of the line of fire and both walk away relatively unharmed, Sherlock decides to propose. Have fun with it from there. I would like snogging to be involved.]**_

"Let me look-"

"Sherlock, I'm fine, head wounds always look 100% worse than they really are-"

"_I said _let me look!" He grabbed John, turning him round on the spot, more forcefully than he'd really intended to. But he just needed to see for himself, just needed to see the damage-

John huffed in agitation as he was pushed back up against the bathroom sink, pulling the compress away. He didn't complain when Sherlock put one hand on the back of his neck and used his other to tilt his head to the light. He knew John wasn't annoyed with being handled… the slight tension dropping out of his shoulders and the way he almost leaned into Sherlock's hand along his jaw, all indicated that he was comfortable with the contact. Reassured even.

If only Sherlock could draw on that comfort too.

Instead he found his mouth a little dry, an unnerving prickling sensation fluttering down the back of his neck, seemingly all the way down him, further still to that weak spot in the back of his knees. What was this one again? _Anxiety? _

Sherlock pursed his lips with a frown, noting all the details of the bullet track cut into the side of John's temple. He could reconstruct the scene with painful clarity. John had pushed him out of the line of fire and nearly got himself killed in the process. Except he was fine, really, they both were. Right?

_Why are you fine?_ He wanted to yell, as the blood slowly oozed from the already clotting wound. _Why aren't you falling apart?_ A quarter inch more and it would have meant surgery. An inch more with that trajectory would have killed his mind at a minimum and the maximum— he gritted his teeth. John just stood there patiently waiting for Sherlock to finish. He looked tired. He looked bored. _Oh, is this what it is? Is this what falling apart feels like? _

"Sh-Sherlock?" John stammered tentatively, looking up at him with concern as he put a hand on his side, giving him a squeeze. "You alright? You've gone really pale-"

_Oh god, what if the bullet had been one more inch to the left? _

"Fine." Convincing fake smile. "Hopefully it won't scar."

He would be standing in the waiting room right now, screaming bloody murder that they couldn't treat him like this. That he had a right to see John, that no he wasn't family, John was his partner, they were together, can't you understand that? And no he didn't care about what the law was- _John's family couldn't give a flying fuck about him- John is mine!_ They were meant to grow old together! Always, that's how it was meant to be.

_Oh…_

Sherlock's hands slid down on to John's shoulders, eyes scanning his face. He couldn't imagine a world without John in it. Without John being completely his. Til death do we part… "Marry me."

John's mouth popped open in surprise, eyes blinking rapidly in shock. "I'm sorry, _what?_ Uh, excuse me?"

"I said marry me."

John laughed nervously. "Yes, I heard that bit- are you alright, did you hit _your_ head?"

"No, John, _look,_ I'm being very serious." He really was. Sherlock looked at him, with all the will in the world, trying to communicate in one look that John was everything to him, that he was sincere. "I want you to take my name."

John looked down, before turning around out of Sherlock's grasp, running the compress under the water. He could see John blushing in the mirror, but frowning too. "Marriage is a big thing Sherlock… it's not just about putting your name on something. You don't need to mark your territory." He shook his head, a nervous edge to his smile as he looked up at him in the reflection. "I'm not running off anywhere. It's alright."

Sherlock felt his stomach twist. "So… it's a no then?" He wanted to look away, but stubbornly held on. He was a glutton for punishment it seemed.

"I didn't say that-"

"But you didn't say yes either."

John's gaze flickered, mouth opening and closing, apparently at a loss. He dabbed the compress against his cut, not even flinching this time. "But you'd… hate it."

He went to deny it but John cut him off.

"Marriage is a _huge_ commitment, and I know you're not religious but I am- well, _a bit_ - I mean I do think my prayers have been answered one or two times but-" Sherlock did his very best not to roll his eyes, this was just something they could never agree on and John turned back round to face him, babbling on and unable to look at him directly.

"Anyway that's not the point. The point is, I'm the marrying type, and you aren't, and that kind of thing never works out. If we got married, you'd feel trapped, you'd get bored, I'd be a burden. I don't believe in divorce- if you get married, it's for life and that's - well - it would really…" His face scrunched up a little, trying to calm himself down maybe, taking a breath. A forced smile. "It would really _hurt_ me. If that happened. Okay? So let's just get cleaned up and go to bed. It's been a bit of a day, we've both got a bit worked up, so it's fine okay, don't worry about it. Let's just forget it."

Sherlock got that fluttery sensation in his stomach. He wasn't 'a bit worked up'… he was completely floored by what John meant to him. He leant in, a hand tracing John's jaw- noting with pleasure the way his eyes dilated…the slight hitch in John's breathing. "We've been together for nineteen months, one week and five days." He was surprised clearly, probably flattered that Sherlock remembered that detail. "If you give me a watch I can count it down to the _second._ I knew I wanted you the moment you stood by the living room window and told me you believed in me. That no one could fake being 'such an annoying dick' all the time." John laughed in spite of himself. "I actually wanted you long before that… I just didn't acknowledge it."

Sherlock took off his coat, throwing it over the edge of the bath, smoothing out his jacket before slowly getting on to one knee. John's eyes widened, but suddenly seemed glassier, more warm… He took John's free hand in his, and swallowed hard, this had to be good.

"So please believe me when I tell you… being without you is not, and never will be, an option for me. I know exactly how you feel about marriage… and I would not ask you if I couldn't meet your expectations." Sherlock gave him his most determined look. "Because I will meet them. Then I will _surpass_ them. And it will never be boring… Understand - _know_ - that you could never be a burden to me."

He'd never felt more sure of anything in his life. Sherlock smiled, squeezing his hand, feeling his own face warm slightly. "I know you're tired, you're sore and you want to go to bed right now, you're a bit - well _quite_ - bloody and I haven't got a ring, but please, _please_ just answer me this…" He took a deep breath, steadying his nerves. "John Hamish Watson… will you do me the greatest honour, of accepting my hand in marriage?"

John seemed almost statuesque in his stillness, just staring at Sherlock knelt in front of him. He looked up, looked around, seemingly completely shell-shocked, but finally spoke, so quiet it was almost a whisper. "I thought you'd laugh at me. For wanting this…"

He frowned in confusion. "Why would I laugh about you wanting to spend the rest of your life telling me what an incredible fuckwit I am?"

He loved it when John laughed uproariously at his jokes, his eyes crinkled and his whole face lit up. It pulled the laughter out of him each time. It was easy with him.

"Yeah, alright." John said through his giggles, before sobering up very quickly. He nodded, licked his bottom lip, and looked Sherlock dead in the eyes. Smiling. "Yes. I'll marry you."

He felt so overwhelmed with excitement that he grabbed John by the scruff of his jumper and pulled him down to kiss him hard. It was so incredible, this feeling, this part he understood- the bit that made him better. _John._

The compress fell out of his hand to the floor, John wrapping both arms around him, pulling him to his feet. Oh the heat of him, the _taste_, the way he fit just perfectly up against him, bent to him like this-

_I wanted you the moment I saw you, I was a fool to be so blind. _

"But-" John murmured into the kiss, trying to retreat a little. He gripped tighter.

"No 'buts' John-"

"-take my name too. Please."

This threw him. "…What?"

"Sherlock Watson-Holmes." He said in a rush. "I'll marry you if you take my name too."

"You can't enforce terms after you've already agreed to make me the happiest man on Earth." He stared in disbelief and John tried to hold back a smile, failing. "I mean that's outrageous."

"Sherlock and John Watson-Holmes…" John rolled the words around his mouth with a gooey smile on his face.

He tightened his grip round John, kissing him on his unmarked temple. "Outrageously _brilliant._ Let's do it."

"Seriously?!"

"Shut up and let me snog the face off you some more, Mr Watson-Holmes." John burst into laughter again, and Sherlock all but sighed into the sound, lips brushing his, before claiming them.

_Mine._


	15. Chapter 15

**[turns out I wrote waaaaaaay more than I intended holy cow hahah. The requirements were very specific so they might seem a little OOC in this one, but I hope you like it either way. WARNING: CONTAINS SMUT...UM...SLIGHTLY 'ROUGHLY HANDLED' SMUT Rated M+ ~~ OH LORDY ~~ It's a bit of angst, a bit of fluffy, maybe even a bit crackish I dunno, it just happened okaaaaayyyyyy]**

**XxBuzzBuzz's Prompt!**

** Sherlock and John have had a fight so they're on a 'break.'**  
** And the whole time on the break Sherlock has been acting like it doesn't bother him.**  
** So John gets a bit agitated, and on Lestrade's Birthday **  
** (Which there holding at a pub or something? I don't know.)**  
** John decides to bring a date. (A female)**  
** And Sherlock doesn't start to get annoyed until she is all over John.**  
** Touching him, and holding his hand, and ect..**  
** So Sherlock becomes possessive in front of everyone.**  
** And then when the girl kisses John, Sherlock like loses his shit and just goes off.**  
** And it would be really great if it had a tiny bit of smut at the end when they get home (;**

* * *

"You_ never_ come to these things though." John looked at him with what appeared to be a mixture of confusion and suspicion.

"Need I remind you that I knew him before you did."

"Ah yes, because you and Greg have always been so very _close_." He replied sarcastically, turning away from Sherlock with a pint in one hand. "Did you even get him a birthday present?"

"Yes." He gestured to the table past the crowd where Sally Donovan perched, already on her third gin and tonic despite the early hours. She was meant to be keeping an eye on the presents but it wasn't really necessary, or possible, judging by the way she was swaying to the music. "I put it with the others."

"Oh, right... Well done." He glanced at Sherlock with a surprised lilt to his voice.

Sherlock bristled, he was more than capable of choosing an appropriate gift, he wasn't a social leper, he just chose to avoid things like this. It was hassle, it was _boring_, it was-

"John!"

A young woman bounced through the crowd, waving wildly in their direction. Long dark curly hair tied up in a loose high ponytail, leather jacket, figure hugging black wrap dress. He glanced to her feet. She was wearing flats, no one wore flats with that kind of outfit, and she loved heels, he could tell by the way her calf muscles moved in the dim light. They were the same height. Her and John.

Sherlock kept his expression completely neutral as John moved away from him to greet the new girl with a hug and courtesy kiss on the cheek.

She was wearing flats to be considerate to a man she'd liked for a long time. So this was _her._ Elouise. The name rankled in his mind, an uncomfortable itch, squirming down the back of his throat. He knew instantly, even from John's poor description of her, that she was one of the suppliers his practice dealt with. The one that always made the effort of going to talk to him personally.

_"She clearly finds you attractive."_

_"She's ten years younger than me, she doesn't fancy me."_

They'd argued playfully about age and attraction, and that had been the last time he'd spoken about her... So here he was, secretly astonished that she was here. Had John invited her out? Had she offered comfort in his time of need? Sherlock tensed at the thought, jaw clenching.

Was he.._.in need?_

They'd hardly spoken since the argument. John had closed himself off... and he'd been too stubborn to bridge the gap. He thought John would be the one to come to him...he hadn't.

John always accused him of violating the personal space rule, but there he was pressing up against some stranger's chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. It wasn't. Because John -

"Aaaaand you're back in the room!" Lestrade snapped his fingers in front of Sherlock's eyes, breaking his concentration. He'd never be able to destroy her with his laser vision at this rate. He took a calming breath, he had to be more relaxed. Yes, if John was going to have a good time chatting with his lady-friend, then he was going to be so unbelievably ice-cool about it. That would teach him. Maybe_._ Sherlock got that uneasy feeling again.

_Unacceptable._

He tried not to think about their argument two weeks ago, when he'd blurted out that if they couldn't agree then maybe they should just call it a day. He'd been literal. He'd meant '_we can't agree so let's just forget about it and stop arguing_' but John had taken it figuratively. He'd thought Sherlock meant it was over. He thought he'd meant '_call it a day on being together_.' He could still see the way John's eyes had widened, then hardened, mouth pinched. Overwhelmed. Betrayed. Why hadn't he corrected him...?

"Uh, hello. Happy Birthday...Greg."

Lestrade looked at him with the face he did when he smelt something strange. "How can you do that?"

_Shit, did he see me giving her the death-eyes?_ "Do what?"

"Make me feel weird about my own name?" He said, cracking up. Only his second beer, significantly paced for the birthday boy.

Sherlock gave him the tiniest smile. "Yes, very amusing."

Lestrade laughed into his drink, openly following Sherlock's line of sight to John and the girl. "Bloody hell isn't that-"

_A bit quick? Really out of character? Rude? Spiteful?_

"-the girl John talked about at Sean's birthday bash?"

"I don't know. I didn't go." He frowned. He should have gone, John invited him, and he brushed him off._ I should have gone._ "Who is Sean? And what did John say about her?"

The detective inspector raised his eyebrows. "I thought you two were... on a break?"

Sherlock didn't want to answer that, choosing to ignore him instead, if he was just going to answer questions with questions. He turned away from Lestrade and went to find a seat out of the way of all the yowling and chattering policemen and women. It was a relief and a curse that smoking was no longer legal inside pubs, because seeing the way John smiled at Elouise made him itchy for some nicotine.

Throwing off his jacket, he sat in one of the booths, leaning on the table in front of him. Obligatory pretend texting on his phone, sharp glances to anyone who tried to engage him in conversation. It only happened twice, and after that everyone seemed to steer clear.

And yet he was unable to stop himself from looking through the crowd surreptitiously. Holding his phone up occasionally, pretending to lose signal, justifying the raise of his head. Because he couldn't get over it.

He couldn't stop from trying to watch them through the crowd, laughing and joking, _'this round is on me' - 'no, no, I insist.'_

She was trying to get him drunk. And it was working... right up until the point a few hours later when John looked straight through the crowd at him. As if he had been perfectly aware of where Sherlock had been sitting _the whole time_. John refused the extra drink then for some reason. But that split second was all it took for Sherlock's chest to contract painfully. If he hadn't felt it before, he might have thought something was seriously medically wrong with him. But there it was, a viscous mix of guilt and longing. When the girl pulled on John's arm to try and get his attention, Sherlock hoped his 'mask of boredom' was still on straight as he turned back to his phone.

Because he didn't want John to know how much it hurt to see him stood next to someone else. He didn't want anyone to know that it pained him to be so far removed from John. And the worst part? John _stayed_ away. Sherlock ended up gripping his phone so hard his knuckles turned white. This model was meant to withstand a car running it over, surely he could handle mistreatment by jealousy. _Jealousy?_ But when he finally risked another glance up...they were gone. Both of them. He scanned the crowd in rapid time. Definitely gone...His stomach lurched. That usually meant...

Sherlock got to his feet so fast he caught the top of his thighs against the edge of the solid wood table in front of him. He swore under his breath as the pain bloomed across his skin, collaring one of Lestrade's desk clerks as he made to go past.

"Eh, what the-?"

"Where's Doctor Watson?" The man, or rather the boy, shrugged off his grip staring blankly at him, eyes slightly glazed from the alcohol he'd imbued. "John Watson, _my blogger_-"

"Oh right _uhh_..." Sherlock wanted to shake him but refrained as the guy snapped his fingers several times. "Yeah, _yeah_ I think I just passed him going to the smoking area-" He grabbed up his coat, twirling it on and walked towards the rear of the pub before the youth had even finished his sentence.

Following the scent of cigarette smoke and London air out through the double doors and into a bundle of bodies laughing raucously, he took stock of the crowd puffing away in the badly lit, poorly cordoned 'smoking area.' But he couldn't see_ them._

"_Whhhhhaaaaayyy_ it's the freak!" Sally fell into him, forcing him to right her to minimise the contact as soon as possible.

"_Not_ now-"

"He's gone! The besht thing that eeever happened to you is _gone_!" Sherlock stared at her as she blinked slowly, swaying against him, thinking that this could finally be the moment when he actually hit her. But then something unexpected happened. She narrowed her eyes conspiratorially and pointed to the alley that led back to the main street. "Gone that way, I mean. With that giiirl." She wrinkled her nose in disgust. "_Maneater_ that one. I cahn tell. You better-"

"Oh, thanks..." He recalled now as she looked at him, that she hadn't been quite so acidic to him when it came out that John and he were an item. They'd argued alot less infact, and now here she was, doing him a favour outright. Surprising.

"Yeah, fuck off." She replied with a smile, turning away to head back inside. He jumped the barrier and jogged in the direction she'd pointed, but somehow, he knew what he'd see before he even reached the corner. That overwhelming feeling of dread washed over him, as if somehow_ time_ had been the one he had been fighting all along...and now it was up.

It still didn't prepare him for what he saw though. It was one thing to imagine the worst, and quite another to see it in the flesh.

The_ flesh..._

Because there she was, hands clasped into John's hair, pressing him up against a cab, like he was hers when he _wasn't._ The logical part of his mind could clearly see that from the angle she was at and the way John's foot was twisted in the gutter, she had pounced on him- he hadn't initiated it. But there was that other part of him, the dominating, possessive part, that went crazy at the sight of her lips pressed against John's. The same part rejoiced when he pulled away sharply.

"I said _no!_ I'm sorry, I just don't like you like that, I'm with someone else-"

But she was drunk and insistent._ A mistake_. Because seemingly without any conscious thought involved, Sherlock was suddenly yanking Elouise backwards by the scruff of her jacket. She gave a startled cry, arms swinging up wildly to try and fling off her assailant. But with one deft movement he had the cab door open, shoving her roughly inside. Wallet open, he flung some money at her feet as she scrambled to right herself.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" She screamed at him.

"He said _no_, he said he's _taken_- so go ply your trade elsewhere." Sherlock hissed, slamming the door shut. He grabbed John by his arm and pulled him away in the opposite direction, back across the front of the pub where Lestrade and his team had decided to spill out of.

"Sherlock! John! Pub crawl! _Come on_, they're closing!"

Sherlock couldn't even answer, he was so incensed, so riled up that John actually turned into the side of him in an effort to ease the grip which must have been hurting him. "Calm down, it was just a kiss-"

"_JUST A KISS?_" He barely recognised his own voice bellowing over the sound of the music and revelry. It was strained, impassioned, _out of control-_ Anderson chortled loudly, no doubt about to say something of absolutely no consequence, but just the awareness of him existing was enough to tip him over the edge right then. "I suggest you hold that breath before I permanently_ remove_ your ability to do so, Anderson."

"There,_ there,_ that was a _threat_-" He pointed at Sherlock like a playground snitch.

Lestrade threw his hands up in the air clumsily. "Nope! No threats! Not on my birthday! _Sherlock_-"

And then John was suddenly piping up, "Let's go,_ come on-_ come on!"

Sherlock turned back to him, releasing him so sharply, that John swayed on his feet. Ofcourse he swayed, he must have had five or six beers by then. "_You_ _stay._ See if I care because you clearly don't give a shit either way." He stalked off, calling back over his shoulder. "Goodnight, Lestrade."

"Oh _Sheeeerlock_, don't be like that!"

It was white noise this city, it was all white noise... because his mind was cruel in it's accuracy at excluding all exterior information, instead replaying over and over every frame of that kiss.

_That kiss._

_THAT KISS._

"_Stop!_ S-stop you idiot-" He was practically tackled into a wall as John caught up to him, breathing heavy. Sherlock glanced up at the street sign- he'd been walking for ten minutes atleast. Why was he walking, why hadn't he just got into a cab? "I said- _stop_, you _stupid_, bloody idiot." Sherlock caught him by the arms as he panted, glaring up at him angrily. John had run to catch up with him, he was here, he actually _did_ 'give a shit'- "Why do _I_ always have to chase _you_? Why? Isn't it_ enough?_ Isn't everything I've _ever_ given you enough?!" John yelled, pushing him roughly. Sherlock wavered, still holding on, so stunned and _relieved_ and-

"You...you thought I wanted to break up."

John stared up at him with a confused frown, nodding. "You _did_, you said-"

"I just wanted to stop arguing!" Sherlock blurted, squeezing John in his grip. "I just _wanted-_" He blinked rapidly, looking up, trying to find the words. "I just..." He couldn't. Because there were no words. Not for this feeling. He just wanted him, but it wasn't enough to say.

This time John didn't resist like he had with Elouise... instead he pushed up into Sherlock as he bent to him, automatically sliding his hands up underneath his coat, fingers digging into his jacket. Sherlock wrapped his arms around his shoulders hugging him tightly as their mouths met. The taste of beer, a flicker of salt, and then _so much_ of the familiar it made a shiver go down his spine. No trace of _her_. The relief knocked the wind out of him. It was a _hunger_, the only one he ever really felt...

"Sherlock- we can't, someone will see-" John whispered, as Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, because she had done it and that was _his right alone._ But John had a point, a late night on the streets of London wasn't exactly a suitable venue for what he wanted to do. They had to get home, and _fast_. He released John to whistle down a cab, both of them bundling in so fast that the driver gave them a startled look. The tension was unbearable as they looked out of their own windows, so very aware of being close, like two magnets wanting to pull together. Yes, _unbearable_...and thrilling.

Out of the cab, money through the window, _get the key in the door_-_ getthekeyinthedoor! Shushh _shhhhush_- Mrs Hudson! Fingers on lips- _lips_ on lips, hands on_ hips_-_

Sherlock just managed to close the living room door, light flicked on, when John pushed him back up against it, pulling his coat down off of him roughly, leaving it to pool on the floor. The alcohol made him bold and Sherlock quite liked it, watching as John flicked off his own coat before pulling at Sherlock's jacket roughly. "And you moan at _me_ about layers!" He seethed, dark eyes hot as he glanced up at him. Cheeks flushed and hair beautifully messed-

Sherlock clasped him round the back of the neck, stealing another kiss, walking him backwards, steering him to the sofa. "I...missed you," he whispered against his lips.

John smiled, cocky. "_Liar._"

One push and John was down on his arse, Sherlock immediately straddling him before he could move away. But he never did want to move away. He had to stop thinking that he would...

_"Stop pushing me- I said I love you!"_

_"This isn't getting us anywhere! Let's just call it a day, alright?"_

He remembered the argument clearly as John stared up at him, tongue darting over his lip. For a split second he hesitated, knowing he needed to apologise but unsure how to start it. So he showed him instead. He whispered it with soft sighs against his throat, hands pulling up John's shirt and unbuckling his jeans. He concentrated all his effort on making John forget anyone else had ever been near him...

There was no secret formula to what made John Watson tick, there was no way of replicating the same moves to get the same result- each encounter was like coaxing a melody out of his violin, every time _different_, every time an opportunity to make new music. And this one apparently started with a whimper, as Sherlock ground up against him, too impatient to undo John's shirt properly, buttons pinging off as he prized it open- cold hands on hot skin, hissed breath, desperate eyes.

John_ fascinated_ him, because every time he thought he had him completely mapped out, he would find out he was mistaken. Always a surprise.

True to form, John continued his boldness by hooking an arm around his waist and expertly flipping Sherlock to the side, pushing him down on to his back on the sofa. His heart accelerated wildly as John returned the favour done to his shirt by ripping open his, heat pooling rapidly in his hips as John bared down on him, moaning hungrily into another kiss. The weight of him was bliss on the senses- they were a perfect fit, _they matched,_ they were a pair, they were-

"Stop thinking Sherlock!" John growled into his ear, slipping to the side of him just enough to wrestle open Sherlock's belt and trousers with one hand- _so dexterous, those tricky fingers-_ "stop thinking and start _doing_-" Sherlock wriggled enough at his instance, merely seconds passing before John had his hand round his length, pumping up and down between them. Delicious shivers of pleasure zig-zagged their way through his body at the sensation of John's determined fingers on him, and all Sherlock could do was paw at his hair and neck, kissing him as John's hard-on joined the mix, both sliding together as they writhed, completely oblivious to everything except each other.

He'd planned on taking the lead and yet John had turned the tables on him, making him want to push up against him, making him gasp and hook his leg around one of John's. "I can't believe you were_ jealous_ of her..." John murmured into the crook of Sherlock's neck- amused? Surprised? He felt the anger surge up with desire.

"I can't believe you invited her!" He bit John on the shoulder, just on the right side of pain, _a warning_, which John returned in kind, using his free hand to yank the back of Sherlock's hair. He shouldn't have enjoyed that, but he _did_, digging his fingers into his back as John continued those firm strokes between them, precum slicking each stroke-_ oh the heat of him-_

"You have been ignoring me this whole time- but _you heard me_ - I said it, I bloody said I was with someone else." Sherlock panted as John twisted his hair again, one quick shake, rocking his hips faster. "You. I'm with _you!_ Even when you ignore me! Why didn't you just tell me I had it wrong?" John froze, sitting up on him just enough to look at him properly in the face. A wounded expression.

He licked his lips, trying to string the right words together. Why, indeed? "I can't... _love you_ like you love me." John tensed, a flash of anger, but he held on to him. "Wait, just listen. I mean selflessly. If this goes wrong, if we go further with it... I just don't know..." His brow furrowed, looking away, so this was what humiliation felt like. "I don't think I...could be without you." A scowl. "You'd be_ fine_, wouldn't you? If you thought I was happy? But if the situation were reversed..." He ground his teeth together, annoyed that an emotion like jealousy ran so deep within his character.

"So what, this was some sort of trial run? An exercise in _detachment?_" John's gaze softened, but all Sherlock could do was purse his lips together. _Strange combination...irritation, frustration, arousal._ John tilted his head to the side, watching him as he began to rub up against him again. Sherlock eyed him suspiciously. "That Elouise girl was really alot_ friendlier_ than I thought..." He started, and Sherlock bristled again. "_Great_ dancer-"

"_John_." He growled his name, but John was keen on tormenting him for some reason.

"She could flick her hips like a professional-"

"_A PROFESSIONAL SLUT!_" Sherlock bellowed, so shocked at his own outburst that he clamped both hands over his mouth, looking at John wide-eyed. He rarely used that kind of language, and never with that amount of force. But John had a strange glint in his eye, clearly finding the whole situation very stimulating. Sherlock moaned into his hands as John tightened his grip around both of their cocks, once again pumping up and down with renewed vigour.

"Jealousy looks good on you." John whispered, nudging against his hands with his cheek. Sherlock didn't need a written invitation, he scooped John's face up in his hands, kissing him hard, fevered by an over active imagination and John's deliberate goading.

"I don't want-" Sherlock bucked his hips as John swiped a sensitive spot, "-_anyone_ to touch you-" he clasped John's neck with both hands, forcing him to look right at him, "-like that- _EVER again_."

"Oh really? Why's that?" John grinned, voice heavy.

"Because-" Sherlock could feel the rush building, breathing becoming more erratic, the power of thought draining from him rapidly. "Because you're _mine_." Sherlock pulled John closer, mouth slipping to his neck, kissing there, and sucking_ hard._

"Ah- _Sherlock...!_"

The sound of John panting his name in pleasure as Sherlock marked him, coupled with the firm grip of fingers in his hair and around his cock, was just too much after so long apart. His mind completely cut out as the overwhelming rush of his orgasm spilled out of him, a deep moan stifled against John's throat, as the heat splashed up between them. He immediately dug his fingers into his back, quite possibly bruising him, as the wave of release rocked through his body, and yet he was acutely aware of _every hitched breath_ John was making until finally he came as well, biting his lip but unable to stop from crying out.

_That noise_...he could hear it a thousand times and never be bored of it.

John collapsed fully on him then, no longer semi supporting himself over Sherlock, hand still wedged between them. If the sensation was typically universal, he probably felt boneless and foggy-headed just like Sherlock. An inbuilt natural high. A reprieve from all the noise that usually thundered through his mind. And after a few minutes of breathless recovery, John was surprisingly the first to speak.

"Did you just...give me a_ lovebite_?"

"..._No_." Sherlock grinned lazily into John's neck, could instantly tell that he was smiling too.

"You _prick_, everyone's going to see it!" John laughed, pinching his waist. He squirmed, all sticky and sweaty, legs and arms jerking- he wished he'd never told him how ticklish he was.

"Good! I want everyone to see it!" He yelled with delight.

John lifted his head enough to fix him with a soft look, not one dulled by alcohol but one fueled by unwavering loyalty. That_ love_. It did strange things to him... strange things like freezing him on the spot.

"It's _okay_... I, of all people, know how difficult it is for you to admit you need someone. But don't punish me every time you feel insecure." This was the part where Sherlock should have snorted derisively at such an oversimplified analysis, and yet _not a sound_ emerged. "There's no right or wrong way to love me... Just... _love me_. Alright?"

He felt shame then, a savage burst of it, for having tortured both of them with the silence in the wake of that stupid argument. But he let it wash right through him and away again, pushed far out of reach. Sherlock nodded, allowing a lopsided smile to appear.

"... Alright."


	16. Chapter 16

**Anonymous asked: Harry dies and Sherlock has to help John through it.**

[aaaaah angsty….derrrppppp]

Sherlock gripped the steering wheel tightly as the windscreen wipers swished the heavy rain off the glass. But it wasn't heavy enough to obscure the view of John stood in the carpark, head down and fists tightly clenched as an older woman yelled at him furiously. It went on for far too long, but he'd promised not to interfere. However, when he saw her raise her hand to strike him, he nearly got out of the car to leap to his defence… but at the last moment John caught her wrist and forcibly turned her away into the arms of another woman who rushed over to help him.

John's mother straightened and glared after him, tight-lipped, as he left her in the rain and made his way over to the car. He didn't look back even once, much to Sherlock's surprise.

John was completely soaked when he slid into the passenger seat, water dripping off the end of his nose as he turned to Sherlock with a tight smile, that never made it to his eyes. "We going then?" He didn't need asking twice.

The ride to the train station was set in silence, and for once Sherlock could hardly stand it. It felt unnatural and stifling- almost worse than the funeral._Almost._ The ceremony itself had been predictably religious, which was no bad thing… but in this instance it was solely for the benefit of the living, not the deceased, and that jarred the whole affair.

Harriet Watson had not exactly been a pious woman: she'd 'married' another woman in a time when it was not even legal in the UK, then divorced her soon after, followed by a long stint of racking up gambling debts so large she'd had to file for bankruptcy. And yes, he would concede that whilst you didn't have to go to church to be a practicing Christian, he knew for a fact that the closest she had gotten to one in recent years was on her drive to the off-license. And now she was being reduced to ash in the crematorium, just another warning against drink-driving to the few remaining friends and family that had attended.

Still, he'd kept quiet the whole time, infact he'd never been as patient and uninteresting as he was today. It had actually taken more effort than he cared to admit to not talk reactively to people. Because Sherlock wasn't exactly the type to care about protocol or etiquette when it came to these blunt truths. But one pleading look from John had focussed him. He wasn't a complete social dunce, he knew when to quit.

He was also very aware that in high stress situations like this, one word said out of turn could be disastrous for any relationship. They had only really hit their stride as a couple about six months ago, so he certainly didn't want to jeopardise it after they'd come so far. Sherlock's mouth quirked into a small brief smile, knowing with certainty that if the subject had not been John himself, his companion would have chastised him for thinking so selfishly. He could imagine him saying: _'for god's sake Sherlock, we're at a bloody funeral can you focus please?'_

But the smile died on his face as they got out of the hire car and ran towards the cover of the station. Because it was just _him_ running. John had started to, but then completely slowed to a rigid walk, face blank, eyes resigned… And looking back at him made Sherlock feel incredibly uncomfortable, like he'd swallowed something living that was now attempting to scratch it's way out of his stomach. He still didn't know how to comfort him properly… He hadn't had much practice in his life.

Sherlock was reminded of the last funeral John had been to, when he had stood at a distance, unobserved and unable to face him… To tell him the truth. He'd underestimated how badly it would affect John, but he'd heard the rumours, knew what the risks were. That was the thing about graveyards, they were quiet, hallowed places… And the truth had been obvious today.

John wouldn't be crying at Harriet's headstone…

And when Sherlock pulled him out of the rain and John finally looked up at him, he knew that he was thinking the _exact_ same thing, but was having a very different reaction to it. Where Sherlock was secretly amazed that John held such depth of feeling for him, by comparison it was clearly hugely conflicting for John.

The connection snapped into place so easily, it was a wonder he'd been so slow to recognise it. It explained why John had been so withdrawn and silent, despite never getting on with Harry and having relatively little contact with her or the rest of his family over the years. It also explained why he couldn't sit through the wake making small talk- it probably alarmed him. John was loyal, honest and disciplined in all the best ways… he put everyone before himself. He really wasn't used to thinking selfishly.

And therein lay the problem for John Watson. Where he should have been grieving for the loss of his sibling, his head had been completely elsewhere. Reflected back every time he'd looked from Harry's coffin to Sherlock. He'd misread John. Grief wasn't the leading emotion today, and that was the problem. It was _guilt_. And it forced John's mouth into a tight line, unable to make eye-contact with Sherlock as he gently pushed his hand away and took the lead into the station.

The journey home to Baker Street felt like days, rather than the 92 minutes train ride Sherlock had counted. Plus another 24 minutes in a cab due to tube diversions and street works clogging up their route. And it rained. It_poured_. Just like in all the crap movies John made him watch- predictably there was always rain on the sad parts…

John was so silent. Distracted. Tense.

Even hugs and pitying consolations from Mrs Hudson did little to provoke a response from him. She gave Sherlock a distressed look, gesturing wildly to the back of John who trudged up the stairs like he was a hundred pounds heavier. He frowned, feeling disgruntled at her perception- she clearly thought he was doing little to help.

"What do you want me to do, _beat_ it out of him?" He hiss-whispered on his way passed her, but Mrs Hudson just shooed him up the stairs like a mother encouraging her son to go do his homework.

"I'll not have a repeat of before - go comfort him, go go!" She whispered back frantically, shaking her head in worry, disappearing back in her own flat before he'd reached the top.

He steeled himself for the task ahead. "John?"

Sherlock followed up close behind his partner, steering him to a stand still as he went to sit in his armchair. John blinked up at him, dazed. "What?"

"You're still all damp. Come on…" Sherlock helped him out of his formal coat and suit jacket, draping them on the dining room chairs, doing the same with his own.

But when he turned back, John was still standing. Staring at Billy the skull on the mantelpiece. He slowly skirted round John, wary about his sudden freeze by the armchair. And when he could stand the silence no longer, Sherlock placed a hand on his lower back- the touch seemingly able to break the spell.

"I feel like a monster." John said numbly, their eyes locking in the reflection of the glass. "I was thinking all the wrong things today." He whispered, clearly ashamed. Sherlock wanted to correct him so badly, but didn't want to make John clam up now that he had actually started talking.

"But I just couldn't keep standing there, listening to how she'd _'lost everything now.'_ To my _face_. First her husband-" Sherlock noticed how it was 'her husband' not 'our father.' "- and now her daughter- who she hadn't spoken to in atleast _three years_ I might add." His expression hardened into a scowl, turning around to finally look at him directly. "I just couldn't stand there pretending we were a normal grieving family… and have her scrutinising my every move… not to just look at me with disappointment, like- _like_ -"

"-she expected you to be the first to go?" Sherlock hit the nail on the head, but it gave him no satisfaction.

John drew in a sharp breath, a flash of hurt crossing his face, brow furrowing. He touched his mouth with one hand, as if he needed extra help to force his expression to relax. But Sherlock knew that little detail off by heart… it was the kind of hurt that had its roots buried deep in childhood. He understood it, had even felt it himself. It was… _difficult_ to see it on his face. Because this was something he couldn't fix. It wasn't the kind of thing that you could just get over.

John nodded once with a strained smile, pausing with a wavering look, hands dropping to become clenched balls at his side… and then abruptly he turned away to leave, but Sherlock caught him by the arm. He resisted immediately. "Don't."

"John-"

"I'm _not_ doing this."

"_John._"

"Today is not about me, okay? _It's about Harry!_" Sherlock held on, because John didn't really want to storm off into solitude, he knew he didn't, even with his rising voice. "It's _done!_ It's over!"

"It was over years ago!" Sherlock countered, with a reinforcing squeeze of his arm.

John's mouth pinched together and for a moment he glared back at him seemingly ready to explode into a tirade of _God-know's-what_. It was the perfect moment for Sherlock to make his move, the only one that counted. He stepped in close to John and wrapped his arms round his shoulders, pressing him to his chest, resting his head on top of his, and just held on, hoping to get through to him.

Even after all the time they'd been together, from friends to lovers, even for all the affection John was inclined to show, there were still times when he couldn't help but default to his army training. Neither of them ever wanted to look weak, and neither of them wanted these reminders, he was sure of it.

Sherlock felt John tense against him before his arms finally relented and he returned the embrace. He found himself squeezed so hard that he felt his back click, but he didn't protest. "It's alright… You're not a monster, John. If you were, you _wouldn't_ be beating yourself up. As usual." He murmured into his hair. Rain. Shampoo. _John._

"Blood is thicker than water."  
He whispered, after a few minutes, drawing in a few shaky breaths. His grip lessoned on Sherlock, hands falling to a loose circle around him. He didn't look up, just continued talking into Sherlock's shoulder. Worrying distant still. "… That's what she said to me. That's the _last thing_ Harriet ever said to me. And I…can't get it out of my head."

No wonder he was freaked out about all the flashbacks to Sherlock's funeral, with that haunting him. His logic kicked in. "Well you don't need to worry about that proverb, considering it is a completely bastardised version of the original."

John pulled away slowly, blinking rapidly, eyes glossy and furtive. Sherlock could see that he was beyond tired, stressed and was trying hard to fight the urge to cry, believing it to be something of huge humiliation.

And yet he _envied_ that.

Sherlock was a master of false tears, but he dried up like an empty well when it came to his real emotions…he'd suppressed them for so long. Seeing John in need was definitely waking up some of his more protective instincts. He rubbed his hands along his shoulders in what he hoped was a reassuring manner, before shuffling John back and into his armchair. John looked up at him questioningly, and ofcourse he was more than happy to elaborate, to provide a distraction.

Sherlock grabbed up one of the smaller table chairs and plonked it in front of him, dropping down into the seat, his legs between John's. "'Blood is thicker than water'… which implies that biological links are superior to the ones we freely create ourselves is _utter drivel._"

He leant forward, fingers drumming on John's knees. "The original phrase is 'the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.' Meaning that the bloodshed dealt in battle, or the blood packs made between those you _choose_ to have in your life counts for far more than DNA, something that is wholly out of your control… Something that is pushed on you from conception."

"Oh… Right."

He looked John straight in the eyes, and this time their gazes held steady. "You're not evil for thinking about… other sad times… it _was_ a funeral, I have it on good authority that funerals are meant to evoke emotion."

The response was slow, but significant. "…There's nothing wrong with me." It wasn't a question or a statement made for Sherlock's benefit… It was something he should have said to his family a long time ago. Well… Sherlock was his family now. Him and Mrs Hudson.

"I knew that the day I meant you."

For the first time since he'd found out about Harriet ten days previously, John genuinely smiled. It was small, and edged with sadness, but it was reflected in those tired eyes. The relief for Sherlock was huge. John took one of Sherlock's hands in his own, leaning on his free hand with his fingers half covering his mouth- talking through them. "Show off."

Sherlock raised his hand and kissed the inside of John's wrist, eyes semi closing to the warmth there. He could never get enough of these little touches. "There's nothing wrong with me." He echoed back.

John sighed…and reached for him.


End file.
